IF  YOU  WANT  TO 

Build  a  House 

DON'T  FAIL  TO  BUY 

Ogilvie's  House  Plans. 

J.  S.  OGILVIE,  Publisher, 

P.  O.  Box  2767.  57  BOSE  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


BY 

MRS.  HUMPHRY  WARD. 


I 


/ 

J.  S.  OGILVIE,  Publisher, 
$7  Rose  Street,  New  York;  79  Wabash  Avenue,  Chicago. 


Dedicated  to  the  Memory 


OF 

MY  TWO  FRIENE^.'.  - 

Separated,  in  my  thought  of  them,  by  much  diversity  of  circumstanc 
and  opinion;  linked,  in  my  faith  about  them,  to  each 
other,  and  to  all  the  shining  ones  of  the 
past,  by  the  love  of  God  and  the 
service  of  man: 

THOMAS  HILL  GREEN 
(Late  Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy  in  the  University  of  Oxford), 
Died  26th  March,  1882; 

AND 

LAURA  OCTAVIA  MARY  LYTTELTON, 
Died  Easter  Eve,  1886. 


i 


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L161— O-1096 

A  Companion  Book  to 

ROBERT  ELSMERE 

Jlas  just  been  Issued  Hntitled 

"The  World  of  Cant," 

and  is  a  vigorous  story  dealing  with  the  shams  of 
the  day  in  religious  matters  and  beliefs.  All 
who  read  Robert  Elsmere  "  should  not  fail  to 
read  The  World  of  Cant."  400  pages.  Paper 
cover,  50  cents  ;  bound  in  cloth,  $1.00.  Sold  by 
all  dealers,  or  mailed  on  receipt  of  price  by 

J.  S.  Ogilvie. 

By  Author  of  Robert  Elsmere, 

mU  illlllllOl, 

Containing  also  Gladstone's  Criticism  on  Robert 
Elsmere. 


Price,  25  cents  in  Paper  Cover  ;  Cloth,  $i.oo. 
Mailed  on  receipt  of  price  by  J.  S.  Ogilvie. 


ROBEBT  ELSMERE. 


WESTMORELAND. 


CHAPTER  I. 

It  was  a  brilliant  afternoon  toward  the  end  of  May. 
The  spring  had  been  unusually  cold  and  late,  and  it  was 
evident  from  the  general  aspect  of  the  lonely  Westmore- 
land valley  of  Long  Whindale  that  warmth  and  sunshine 
had  only  just  penetrated  to  its  bare  green  recesses,  where 
the  few  scattered  trees  were  fast  rushing  into  their  full 
summer  dress,  while  at  their  feet,  and  along  the  bank  of 
the  stream,  the  flowers  of  March  and  April  still  Hngered 
as  though  they  found  it  impossible  to  believe  that  their 
rough  brother,  the  east  wind,  had  at  last  deserted  them. 
The  narrow  road,  which  was  the  only  link  between  the 
farm-houses  sheltered  by  the  crags  at  the  head  of  the 
valley  and  those  far-away  regions  of  town  and  civihzation 
suggested  by  the  smoke  wreaths  of  Whinborough  on  the 
southern  horizon,  was  hned  with  masses  of  the  white  heck- 
berry  or  bird-cherry,  and  ran,  an  arrowy  line  of  white, 
through  the  greenness  of  the  sloping  pastures.    The  sides 
of  some  of  the  little  becks  running  down  into  the  main  river 
and  many  of  the  plantations  round  the  farms  were  gay  with 
the  same  tree,  so  that  the  farm-houses,  gray  roofed  and  gray 
walled,  standing  in  the  hollows  of  the  fells,  seemed  here  and 
there  to  have  been  robbed  of  all  their  natural  austerity  of 
aspect,  and  to  be  masquerading  in  a  dainty  garb  of  white 
and  green  imposed  upon  them  by  the  caprice  of  the  spring. 

During  the  greater  part  of  its  course  the  valley  of  L^iig 
Whmdale  is  tame  and  featureless.  The  hills  at  the  lower 
part  are  low  and  rounded,  and  the  sheep  and  cattle  pasture 


4 


ROBERT  EL6MERE. 


over  slopes  unbroken  either  by  wood  or  rock.  The  fields 
are  bare  and  close  shaven  by  the  flocks  which  feed  on  them ; 
the  walls  run  either  perpendicularly  in  many  places  up  the 
fells  or  horizontally  along  them,  so  that,  save  for  the  wooded 
course  of  the  tumbling  river  and  the  bush-grown  hedges  of 
the  road,  the  whole  valley  looks  hke  a  green  map  divided  by 
regular  lines  of  grayish  black.  But  as  the  walker  penetrates 
further,  beyond  a  certain  bend  which  the  stream  makes 
half-way  from  the  head  of  the  dale,  the  hiUs  grow  steeper, 
the  breadth  between  them  contracts,  the  inclosure  lines  are 
broken  and  deflected  by  rocks  and  patches  of  plantation, 
and  the  few  farms  stand  more  boldly  and  conspicuously  for. 
ward,  each  on  its  spur  of  land,  looking  up  to  or  away  from 
the  great  masses  of  frowning  crag  which  close  in  the  head 
of  the  valley,  and  which  from  the  moment  they  come  into 
sight  give  it  dignity  and  a  wild  beauty. 

On  one  of  these  solitary  houses,  the  afternoon  sun,  about 
to  descend  before  very  long  behind  the  hills  dividing  Long 
Whindale  from  Shanmoor,  was  still  lingering  on  this  May 
afternoon  we  are  describing,  bringing  out  the  whitewashed 
porch  and  the  broad  bands  of  white  edging  the  windows  into 
relief  against  the  gray  stone  of  the  main  fabric,  the  gray 
roof  overhanging  it,  and  the  group  of  sycamores  and  Scotch 
firs  which  protected  it  from  the  cold  east  and  north.  The 
western  Kght  struck  full  on  a  copper  beech,  which  made  a 
welcome  patch  of  warm  color  in  front  of  a  long  gray  line  of 
outhouses  standing  level  with  the  house,  and  touched  the  heck- 
berry  blossom  which  marked  the  upward  course  of  the  Httle 
lane  connecting  the  old  farm  with  the  road ;  above  it  rose  the 
green  fell,  broken  here  and  there  by  jutting  crags,  and  below 
it  the  ground  sunk  rapidly  through  a  piece  of  young  hazel 
plantation,  at  this  present  moment  a  sheet  of  blue-bells, 
toward  the  level  of  the  river.  There  was  a  dainty  and  yet 
sober  brightness  about  the  whole  picture.  Summer  in  the  North 
is  for  Nature  a  time  of  expansion  and  of  joy  as  it  is  elsewhere, 
but  there  is  none  of  that  opulence,  that  sudden  splendor  and 
superabundance,  which  mark  it  in  the  South.  In  these  bare 
green  valleys  there  is  a  sort  of  dehcate  austerity  even  in  the 
summer;  the  memory  of  vv inter  seems  to  be  still  hngering 
about  these  wind-swept  fells,  about  the  farm-houses,  with  their 
rough  serviceable  walls,  of  the  same  stone  as  the  crags  behind 
them,  and  the  ravines,  in  which  the  shrunken  becks  trickle 


ROBEBT  ELSMERE. 


5 


musically  down  through  the  debris  of  innumerable  Decembers. 
The  country  is  blithe,  but  soberly  blithe.  Nature  shows  herself 
dehghtf  ul  to  man,  but  there  is  nothing  absorbing  or  intoxicat- 
ing about  her.  Man  is  still  well  able  to  defend  himself  against 
her,  to  live  his  own  independent  life  of  labor  and  of  will,  and 
to  develop  the  tenacity  of  hidden  feeling,  that  slowly  growing 
intensity  of  purpose,  which  is  so  often  wiled  out  of  him  by  the 
spells  of  the  South. 

The  distant  aspect  of  Burwood  Farm  differed  in  nothing 
from  that  of  the  few  other  farm-houses  which  dotted  the  fells 
or  clustered  beside  the  river  between  it  and  the  rocky  end  of 
the  valley.  But  as  one  came  nearer,  certain  signs  of  difference 
became  visible.  The  garden,  instead  of  being  the  old-fashioned 
medley  of  phloxes,  lavender  bushes,  monthly  roses,  gooseberry- 
trees,  herbs,  and  pampas-grass,  with  which  the  farmers'  wives 
of  Long  Whindale  loved  to  fill  their  front  inclosures,  was  trimly 
laid  down  in  turf  dotted  with  neat  flower-beds,  full  at  the 
moment  we  are  writing  of  with  orderly  patches  of  scarlet  and 
purple  anemones,  wall-flowers,  and  pansies.  At  the  side  of  the 
house  a  new  bow-window,  modest  enough  in  dimensions  ana 
make,  had  been  thrown  out  on  to  another  close-shaven  piece  oi 
lawn,  and  by  its  suggestion  of  a  distant  sophisticated  order  o^ 
things  disturbed  the  homely  impressic  q  left  b>  the  untouched 
ivy-grown  walls,  the  unpretending  porch,  and  wide  slate  win- 
dow-sills of  the  front.  And  evidently  the  line  of  sheds  standing 
level  with  the  dwelling-house  no  longer  sheltered  the  animals, 
the  carts,  or  the  tools  which  make  the  small  capital  of  a  West- 
moreland farmer.  The  windows  in  them  were  new,  the  doors 
fresh  painted  and  closely  shut ;  curtains  of  some  soft  outlandish 
make  showed  themselves  in  what  had  once  been  a  stable,  and 
the  turf  stretched  smoothly  up  to  a  narrow  graveled  path  in 
front  of  them,  unbroken  by  a  single  footmark.  No,  evidently 
the  old  farm,  for  such  it  undoubtedly  was,  had  been  but  lately, 
or  comparatively  lately,  transformed  to  new  and  softer  uses; 
that  rough  patriarchal  life  of  which  it  had  once  been  a  symbol 
and  center  no  longer  bustled  and  clattered  through  it.  It  had 
become  the  shelter  of  new  ideals,  the  home  of  another  and  a 
milder  race  than  once  possessed  it. 

In  a  stranger  coming  upon  the  house  for  the  first  time,  on 
this  particular  evening,  the  sense  of  a  changing  social  order  and 
a  vanishing  past  produced  by  the  slight  but  significant  modifi- 
cations it  had  undergone,  would  have  been  greatly  quickened 


0 


BOBERT  ELSMERE. 


by  certain  sounds  which  were  streaming  out  on  to  the  evening 
air  from  one  of  the  divisions  of  that  long  one-storied  addition 
to  the  main  dwelHng  we  have  already  described.  Some  inde- 
fatigable musician  inside^ was  practicing  the  vioHn  with  sur- 
prising energy  and  vigor,  and  within  the  httle  garden  the 
distant  murmur  of  the  river  and  the  gentle  breathing  of  the 
west  v^ind  round  the  fell  were  entirely  conquered  and  banished 
by  these  triumphant  shakes  and  turns,  or  by  the  flourishes  and 
the  broad  cantdbile  passages  of  one  of  Spohr's  Andantes.  For 
awhile,  as  the  sun  sunk  lower  and  lower  toward  the  Shanmoor 
hills,  the  hidden  artist  had  it  all  his,  or  her,  own  way;  the 
valley  and  its  green  spaces  seemed  to  be  possessed  by  this 
stream  of  eddying  sound,  and  no  other  sign  of  hfe  broke  the 
gray  quiet  of  the  house.  But  at  last,  just  as  the  golden  ball 
touched  the  summit  of  the  craggy  fell,  which  makes  the  west- 
em  boundary  of  the  dale  at  its  higher  end,  the  house  door 
opened,  and  a  young  girl,  shawled  and  holding  some  soft  bur- 
den in  her  arms,  appeared  on  the  threshold,  and  stood  there 
for  a  moment,  as  though  trying  the  quality  of  the  air  outside. 
Her  pause  of  inspection  seemed  to  satisfy  her,  for  she  moved 
forward,  leaving  the  door  open  behind  her,  and,  stepping  across 
the  lawn,  settled  herself  in  a  wicker-chair  under  an  apple-tree, 
which  had  only  just  shed  its  blossoms  on  the  turf  below.  She 
had  hardly  done  so  when  one  of  the  distant  doors  opening  on 
the  gravel  path  flew  open,  and  another  maiden,  a  slim  creature 
garbed  in  aesthetic  blue,  a  mass  of  reddish-brown  hair  flying 
back  from  her  face,  also  stepped  out  into  the  garden. 

"  Agnes!"  cried  the  new-comer,  who  had  the  strenuous  and 
disheveled  air  natural  to  one  just  emerged  from  a  long  violin 
practice.    ''Has  Catherine  come  back  yet  ?" 

''Not  that  I  know  of.  Do  come  here  and  look  at  pussy;  did 
you  ever  see  anything  so  comfortable  ?" 

"  You  and  she  look  about  equally  lazy.  What  have  you  been 
doing  all  the  afternoon  ?" 

"We  look  what  we  are,  my  dear.  Doing  ?  Why,  I  have  been 
attending  to  my  domestic  duties,  arranging  the  flowers,  mend- 
ing my  pink  dress  for  to-morrow  night,  and  helping  to  keep 
mamma  in  good  spirits;  she  is  depressed  because  she  has  been 
finding  Elizabeth  out  in  some  waste  or  other,  and  I  have  been 
preaching  to  her  to  make  Elizabeth  uncomfortable  if  she  likes, 
but  not  to  worrit  herself.  And  after  all,  pussy  and  I  hav4 
come  out  for  a  rest.   We've  earned  it,  haven't  we,  Chattie  ? 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


7 


And,  as  for  you,  Miss  Artistic,  I  should  like  to  know  what  you've 
been  doing  for  the  good  of  your  kind  since  dinner.  I  suppose 
you  had  tea  at  the  vicarage  ?" 

The  speaker  Ufted  inquiring  eyes  to  her  sister  as  she  spoke, 
her  cheek  plunged  in  the  warm  fur  of  a  splendid  Persian  cat, 
her  whole  look  and  voice  expressing  the  very  highest  degree  of 
quiet,  comfort  and  self-possession.  Agues  Leyburn  was  not 
pretty;  the  lower  part  of  the  face  was  a  httle  heavy  in  outline 
and  molding;  the  teeth  were  not  as  they  should  have  been,  and 
the  nose  was  unsatisfactory.  But  the  eyes  under  their  long 
lashes  were  shrewdness  itself,  and  there  was  an  individuality 
in  the  voice,  a  cheery  even-temperedness  in  look  and  tone  which 
had  a  pleasing  effect  on  the  by-stander.  Her  dress  was  neat 
and  dainty ;  every  detail  of  it  bespoke  a  young  woman  who 
respected  both  herself  and  the  fashion. 

Her  sister,  on  the  other  hand,  was  guiltless  of  the  smaUest 
trace  of  fashion.  Her  skirts  were  cut  with  the  most  engaging 
naivete,  she  w^as  much  adorned  with  amber  beads,  and  her 
red-brown  hair  had  been  tortured  [ind  frizzled  to  look  as  much 
like-an  aureole  as  possible.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  she  was  a 
beauty,  though  at  present  you  felt  her  a  beauty  in  disguise,  a 
stage  Cinderella  as  it  were,  in  very  becoming  rags,  waiting  for 
the  godmother. 

"Yes,  I  had  tea  at  the  vicarage,"  said  this  young  person, 
throwing  herself  on  the  grass  in  spite  of  a  murmured  protest 
from  Agnes,  who  had  an  inherent  dislike  of  anything  physi- 
cally rash,  ''and  I  had  the  greatest  difficulty  to  get  away. 
Mrs.  Thornburgh  is  in  such  a  flutter  about  this  visit!  One 
would  think  it  was  the  bishop  and  all  his  canons,  and  promo- 
tion depending  on  it,  she  has  baked  so  many  cakes  and  put 
out  so  many  dinner  napkins  !  I  don't  envy  the  young  man. 
She  will  have  no  wits  left  at  all  to  entertain  him  with.  I 
actually  wound  up  by  administering  some  sal-volatile  to  her.' 

''Well,  and  after  the  sal-volatile  did  you  get  anything  co- 
herent out  of  her  on  the  subject  of  the  young  man?  " 

"By  degrees,"  said  the  girl,  her  eyes  twinkling  ;  "if  one 
can  only  remember  the  thread  between  whiles  one  gets  at 
the  facts  somehow.  In  between  the  death  of  Mr.  Elsmere's 
father  and  his  going  to  college,  we  had,  let  me  see— the  spare- 
room  curtains,  the  making  of  them  and  the  cleaning  of 
them,  Sarah's  idiocy  in  sticking  to  her  black  sheep  of  a 
young  man,  the  price  of  tea  when  §be  married,  Mr.  Thorn- 


8 


ROBEBT  ELSMERE. 


burgh's  singular  preference  of  boiled  mutton  to  roast,  the  poems 
he  had  written  to  her  when  she  was  eighteen,  and  I  can't 
tell  you  what  else  besides.  But  I  held  fast,  and  every  now 
and  then  I  brought  her  up  to  the  point  again,  gently,  but 
firmly,  and  now  I  think  I  know  all  I  want  to  know  about  the 
interesting  stranger." 

"Mj  ideas  about  him  are  not  many, "  said  Agnes,  rubbing  her 
cheek  gently  up  and  down  the  purring  cat,  "and  there  doesn't 
seem  to  be  much  order  in  them.  He  is  very  accomplished— a 
teetotaller— he  has  been  to  the  Holy  Land,  and  his  hair  has 
been  cut  close  after  a  fever.  It  sounds  odd,  but  I  am  not  curi- 
ous.   I  can  very  well  wait  till  to-morrow  evening." 

Oh,  well,  as  to  ideas  about  a  person,  one  doesn't  get  that 
sort  of  thing  from  Mrs.  Thornburgh.  But  I  know  how  old  he 
is,  where  he  went  to  college,  where  his  mother  lives,  a  cer- 
tain number  of  his  mother's  pecuharities,  which  seem  to  be 
Irish  and  curious,  where  his  living  is,  how  niuch  it  is  worth, 
likewise  the  color  of  his  eyes,  as  near  as  Mrs.  Thornburgh  can 
get." 

What  a  start  you  have  been  getting! "  said  Agnes,  lazily. 
But  what  is  it  makes  the  poor  old  thing  so  excited?" 
Rose  sat  up  and  began  to  fling  the  fir  cones  lying  about  her 
at  a  distant  mark  with  an  energy  worthy  of  her  physical  per- 
fections and  the  aesthetic  freedom  of  her  attire. 

Because,  my  dear,  Mrs.  Thornburgh  at  the  present  mo- 
ment is  always  seeing  herself  as  the  conspirator  sitting  match 
in  hand  before  a  mine.  Mr.  Elsmere  is  the  match— we  are 
the  mine !" 

Agnes  looked  at  her  sister,  and  they  both  laughed,  the  bright 
rippling  laugh  of  young  women  perfectly  aware  of  their  own 
value,  and  in  no  hurry  to  force  an  estimate  of  it  on  the  male 
world. 

"Well,"  said  Eose,  deliberately,  her  delicate  cheek  flushed 
with  her  gymnastics,  her  eyes  sparkling,  "there  is  no  saying. 
^Propinquity  does  it  '—as  Mrs.  Thornburgh  is  always  remind- 
ing us.  But  where  can  Cathrine  be?  She  went  out  directly 
after  lunch." 

"She  has  gone  out  to  see  that  youth  who  hurt  his  back  at 
the  Tysons— at  least  I  heard  her  talking  to  mamma  about  him, 
and  she  went  out  with  a  basket  that  looked  like  beef -tea." 

Rose  frowned  a  little. 

"  And  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  been  to  the  school  or  to  see 


ItOBEtiT  ELSMfiRE. 


9 


Mrs.  Robson,  instead  of  fiddling  all  the  afternoon.  I  dare  say  I 
ought— only,  unfortunately,  I  like  my  fiddle,  and  I  don't  ]ike 
stulfy  cottages;  and  as  for  the  goody  books,  I  read  them  so 
badly  that  the  old  women  themselves  come  down  upon  me." 

I  seem  to  have  been  making  the  best  of  both  worlds,"  said 
Agnes,  placidly.  "  I  haven't  been  doing  anything  I  don't  hke, 
but  I  got  hold  of  that  dress  she  brought  home  to  make  for  httle 
Emma  Payne,  and  nearly  finished  the  skirt,  so  that  I  feel  as 
good  as  one  when  one  has  been  twice  to  church  on  a  wet  Sun- 
day.  Ah,  there  is  Catherine.    I  heard  the  gate." 

As  she  spoke  steps  were  heard  approaching  through  the 
clump  of  trees  which  sheltered  the  httle  entrance  gate,  and  as 
Eose  sprung  to  her  feet  a  tall  figure  in  white  and  gray  appeared 
against  the  background  of  the  sycamores,  and  came  quickly 
toward  the  sisters. 

Dears,  I  am  so  sorry;  I  am  afraid  you  have  been  waiting 
for  me.  But  poor  Mrs.  Tyson  wanted  me  so  badly  that  I  could 
not  leave  her.  She  had  no  one  else  to  help  her  or  to  be  with 
her  till  that  eldest  girl  of  hers  came  home  from  work." 

''It  doesn't  matter,"  said  Rose,  as  Catherine  put  her  arm 
round  her  shoulder;  ''mamma  hasn't  been  fidgeting,  and  as 
for  Agnes,  she  looks  as  if  she  never  wanted  to  move  again." 

Catherine's  clear  eyes,  which  at  the  moment  seemed  to  be 
full  of  inward  light,  kindled  in  them  by  some  foregoing  experi- 
ence, rested  kindly,  but  only  half  consciously,  on  her  younger 
sister,  as  Agnes  softly  nodded  and  smiled  to  her.  Evidently 
she  was  a  good  deal  older  than  the  other  two— she  looked  about 
six-and-twenty,  a  young  and  vigorous  woman  in  the  prime  of 
health  and  strength.  The  lines  of  the  form  were  rather  thin 
and  spare,  but  they  were  softened  by  the  loose  bodice  and  long 
full  skirt  of  her  dress,  and  by  the  folds  of  a  large  white  mushn 
*  handkerchief  which  was  crossed  over  her  breast.  The  face, 
sheltered  by  the  plain  shady  hat,  was  also  a  little  spoiled  from 
the  point  of  view  of  beauty  by  the  sharpness  of  the  lines  about 
the  chin  and  mouth,  and  by  a  slight  prominence  of  the  cheek- 
bones, but  the  eyes,  of  a  dark,  bluish-gray,  were  fine,  the  nose 
delicately  cut,  the  brow  smooth  and  beautiful,  while  the  cpi?i- 
plexion  had  caught  the  freshness  and  purity  of  Westmoreland 
air  and  Westmoreland  streams.  About  face  and  figure  there 
was  a  delicate  austere  charm,  something  which  harmonized 
with  the  bare  stretches  and  lonely  crags  of  the  fells,  something 
which  seemed  to  make  her  aj;rue  daughter  of  the  mountains, 


10 


ROBEKT  ELSMEltE. 


partaker  at  once  of  their  gentleness  and  their  severity.  She 
was  in  her  place  here,  beside  the  homely  Westmoreland  house 
and  under  the  shelter  of  the  fells.  When  you  first  saw  the 
other  sisters  you  wondered  what  strange  chance  had  brought 
them  into  that  remote  sparely  peopled  valley;  they  were 
plainly  exiles,  and  conscious  exiles,  from  the  movement  and 
exhilarations  of  a  fuller  social  life.  But  Catherine  impressed 
you  as  only  a  refined  variety  of  the  local  type;  you  could  have 
found  many  like  her,  in  a  sense,  among  the  sweet-faced  serious 
women  of  the  neighboring  farms. 

Now,  as  she  and  Eose  stood  together,  her  hand  still  resting 
lightly  on  the  other's  shoulder,  a  question  from  Agnes  banished 
the  faint  smile  on  her  lips,  and  left  only  the  look  of  inward  il- 
lumination, the  expression  of  one  who  had  just  passed,  as  it 
were,  through  a  strenuous  and  heroic  moment  of  life,  and  was 
still  living  in  the  exaltation  of  memory. 
So  the  poor  fellow  is  worse?" 

Yes.  Doctor  Baker,  whom  they  have  got  to-day,  says  the 
spine  is  hopelessly  injured.  He  may  live  on  paralyzed  for  a 
few  months  or  longer,  but  there  is  no  hope  of  cure." 

Both  girls  uttered  a  shocked  exclamation:  That  fine  strong 
young  man!"  said  Eose,  under  her  breath.      Does  he  know?" 

''Yes;  when  I  got  there  the  doctor  had  just  gone,  and  Mrs. 
Tyson,  who  was  quite  unprepared  for  anything  so  dreadful, 
seemed  to  have  almost  lost  her  wits,  poor  thing!  I  found  her 
in  the  front  kitchen  with  her  apron  over  her  head,  rocking  te 
and  fro,  and  poor  Arthur  in  the  inner  room— all  alone— waitinf 
in  suspense." 

"  And  who  told  him?   He  has  been  so  hopeful." 

did,"  said  Catherine,  gently;  **they  made  me.  He 
would  know,  and  she  couldn't— she  fan  out  of  the  room.  1 
never  saw  anything  so  pitiful." 

"Oh,  Catherine!"  exclaimed  Eose's  moved  voice,  whQa 
Agnes  got  up,  and  Chattie  jumped  softly  down  from  her  lap, 
imheeded. 

"How  did  he  bear  it?" 

"  Don't  ask  fne,"  said  Catherine,  while  the  quiet  tears  filled 
her  eyes  and  her  voice  broke,  as  the  hidden  feeling  would  havu 
^'ts  way.  "It  was  terrible !  I  don't  know  how  we  got  throug ? 
that  half  hour— his  mother  and  I.  It  v^ras  like  wrestling  witu 
fiome  one  in  agony.  At  last  he  was  exhausted— he  let  me  sa> 
the  Lord's  Prayer;  I  think  it  soothed  him,  but  one  couldn'i 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


11 


tell.  He  seemed  half  asleep  when  I  left.  Oh!"  she  cried,  lay- 
ing her  hand  in  a  close  grasp  on  Eose's  arm,  if  you  had  seen 
his  eyes,  and  his  poor  hands— there  was  such  despair  in  them! 
They  say,  though  he  was  so  young,  he  was  thinking  of  getting 
married;  and  he  was  so  steady,  such  a  good  son!" 

A  silence  fell  upon  the  three.  Catherine  stood  looking  out 
across  the  valley  toward  the  sunset.  Now  that  the  demand 
upon  her  for  calmness  and  fortitude  was  removed,  and  that  the 
religious  exaltation  in  which  she  had  gone  through  the  last 
three  hours  was  becoming  less  intense,  the  pure  human  pity  of 
the  scene  she  had  just  witnessed  seemed  to  be  gaining  upon 
her.  Her  lip  trembled,  and  two  or  three  tears  silently  over- 
flowed. Eose  turned  and  gently  kissed  her  cheek,  and  Agnes 
touched  her  hand  caressingly.  She  smiled  at  them,  for  it  was 
not  in  her  nature  to  let  any  sign  of  love  pass  unheeded,  and  in 
a  few  more  seconds  she  had  mastered  herself. 

"  Dears,  we  must  go  in.  Is  mother  in  her  room?  Oh,  Eose ! 
in  that  thin  dress  on  the  grass;  I  oughtn^t  to  have  kept  you 
out.   It  is  quite  cold  by  now." 

And  she  hurried  them  m,  leaving  them  to  superintend  the 
preparations  for  supper  down-stairs  while  she  ran  up  to  her 
mother. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  afterward  they  were  all  gathered  round 
the  supper-table,  the  windows  open  to  the  garden  and  the  May 
twilight.  At  Catherine's  right  hand  sat  Mrs.  Leyburn,  a  tall 
delicate-looking  woman,  wrapped  in  a  white  shawl,  about 
whom  there  only  three  things  to  be  noticed— an  amiable 
temper,  a  sufficient  amount  of  weak  health  to  excuse  her  all 
the  more  tiresome  duties  of  life,  and  an  incorrigible  tendency 
to  sing  the  praises  of  her  daught^  at  all  times  and  to  all  peo- 
ple. The  daughters  winced  under  it;  Catherine,  because  it 
was  a  positive  pain  to  her  to  hear  herseK  brought  forward  and 
talked  about;  the  others,  because  youth  infinitely  prefers  to 
make  its  own  points  in  its  own  way.  Nothing,  however,  could 
mend  this  defect  of  Mrs.  Leybum's.  Catherine's  strength  of 
will  could  kept  it  in  check  sometimes,  but  in  general  it  had  tc 
be  borne  with.  A  sharp  word  would  have  silenced  the  mother's 
well-meant  chatter  at  any  time— for  she  was  a  fragile,  nervous 
woman,  entirely  dependent  on  her  surroundings— but  none  of 
of  them  were  capable  of  it,  and  their  mere  refractoriness 
counted  for  nothing. 

The  dining-room  in  which  they  were  gathered  had  a  good 


12 


ROBERT  ELSMERE, 


deal  of  homely  dignity,  and  was  to  the  Leybums  full  of  asso- 
ciations. The  oak  settle  near  the  fire,  the  oak  sideboard  run- 
ning along  one  side  of  the  room,  the  black  oak  table  with 
carved  legs  at  which  they  sat,  were  genuine  pieces  of  old 
Westmoreland  work,  which  had  belonged  to  their  grandfather. 
The  heavy  carpet  covering  the  stone  floor  of  what  twenty 
years  before  had  been  the  kitchen  of  the  farm-house  was  a 
survival  from  a  south-country  home,  which  had  sheltered  thei.^ 
Hves  for  eight  happy  years.  Over  the  mantel-piece  hung  th- 
portrait  of  the  girls'  father,  a  long,  serious  face,  not  unlike 
Wordsworth's  face  in  outline,  and  bearing  a  strong  reseiri- 
blance  to  Catherine;  a  line  of  silhouettes  adorned  the  mantel- 
piece; on  the  walls  were  prints  of  Winchester  and  Worcester 
Cathedrals,  photographs  of  Greece,  and  two  old-fashioned  en- 
gravmgs  of  Dante  and  Milton ;  while  a  book-case,  filled  appar- 
ently with  the  father's  college  books  and  college  prizes  and  the 
favorite  authors— mostly  poets,  philosophers,  and  theologians 
—of  his  later  years,  gave  a  final  touch  of  habitableness  to  the 
room.  The  httle  meal  and  its  appointments— the  eggs,  the 
home-made  bread  and  preserves,  the  tempting  butter  and  old- 
fashioned  silver  gleaming  among  the  flowers  which  Rose  ar- 
ranged with  fanciful  skill  in  Japanese  pots  of  her  own  provid- 
ing—suggested the  same  family  qualities  as  the  room.  Fru- 
gality, a  damty  personal  self-respect,  a  family  consciousness, 
tenacious  of  its  memories  and  tenderly  careful  of  all  the  little 
material  objects  which  were  to  it  the  symbols  of  those  mem- 
ories—clearly all  these  elements  entered  into  the  Ley  bum  tra- 
dition. 

And  of  this  tradition,  with  its  imphed  assertions  and  de- 
nials, clearly  Catherine  Leyburn,  the  elder  sister,  was,  of  all 
the  persons  gathered  in  this  little  room,  the  most  pronounced 
embodiment.  She  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table,  the  little 
basket  of  her  own  and  her  mother's  keys  beside  her.  Her 
dress  was  a  soft  black  brocade,  with  lace  collar  and  cuff, 
which  had  once  belonged  to  an  aunt  of  her  mother's.  It  was 
too  old  for  her  both  in  fashion  and  material,  but  it  gave  her  a 
gentle  almost  matronly Hignity  which  became  her.  Her  long, 
thin  hands,  full  of  character  and  dehcacy,  moved  nimbly 
among  the  cups;  all  her  ways  were  quiet  and  yet  decided.  It 
was  evident  that  among  this  Httle  party  she,  and  not  the 
plaintive  mother,  was  really  in  authority.  To-night,  however 
her  looks  were  especiaUy  soft.    The  scene  she  had  gon^ 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


13 


through  in  the  afternoon  had  left  her  pale,  with  traces  of  pa- 
tient fatigue  round  the  eyes  and  mouth,  hut  all  her  emotion 
was  gone,  and  she  was  devoting  herself  to  the  others,  respond- 
ing with  quick  interest  and  ready  smiles  to  all  they  had  to  say, 
and  contrihuting  the  Httle  experiences  of  her  own  day  in  re- 
ton. 

Eose  sat  on  her  left  hand  in  yet  another  gown  of  strange 
bint  and  archaic  outhne.  Rose's  gowns  were  legion.  They 
were  manufactured  by  a  farmer's  daughter  across  the  valley, 
under  her  strict  and  precise  supervision.  She  was  accus- 
tomed, as  she  boldly  avowed,  to  shut  herself  up  at  the  begin- 
ing  of  each  season  of  the  year  for  two  days'  meditation  on  the 
subject.  An  now,  thanks  to  the  spring  warmth,  she  was  en- 
tering at  last  with  infinite  zest  on  the  results  of  her  April 
Vigils.  . 

Catherine  had  surveyed  hhr  as  she  entered  the  room  with  a 
smile,  but  a  smile  not  altogether  to  Rose's  taste. 

''What,  another,  Roschen?"  she  had  said,  with  the  sUghtest 
lifting  of  the  eyebrows.  "You  never  confided  that  to  me. 
Did  you  think  I  was  unworthy  of  anything  so  artistic?" 

''Not  at  all,"  said  Rose,  calmly,  seating  herself.  "I 
thought  you  were  better  employed." 

But  a  flush  flew  over  her  transparent  cheek,  and  she  pres- 
ently threw  an  irritated  look  at  Agnes,  who  had  been  looking 
from  her  to  Catherine  with  amused  eyes. 

"  I  met  Mr.  Thornburgh  and  Mr.  Elsmere  driving  from  the 
station,"  Catherine  announced  presently;  "  at  least  there  was 
a  gentleman  in  a  clerical  wide-awake,  with  a  portmanteau  be- 
hind, so  I  imagine  it  must  have  been  he." 

"  Did  he  look  promising?"  inquired  Agnes. 

*' I  don't  think  I  noticed,"  said  Catherine,  simply,  but  with 
a  momentary  change  of  expression.  The  sisters,  remembering 
how  she  had  come  in  upon  them  with  that  look  of  one  "  lifted 
up,"  understood  why  she  had  not  noticed,  and  refrained  from 
further  questions. 

"Well,  it  is  to  be  hoped  the  young  man  is  recovered  enough 
to  stand  Long  Whindale  festivities,"  said  Rose.  "Mrs.  Thorn- 
burgh means  to  let  them  loose  on  his  devoted  head  to-morrow 
night." 

"  Who  are  coming?"  asked  Mrs.  Leyburn,  eagerly.  The  oc- 
casional tea-parties  of  the  neighborhood  were  an  unfailing  ex* 
citement  to  her,  simply  because,  by  dint  of  the  small  adorn. 


14 


BOBEET  ELSMEBE. 


ings,  natural  to  the  occasion,  they  showed  her  daughters  to 
her  under  slightly  new  aspects.  To  see  Catherine,  who  never 
took  any  thought  for  her  appearance,  forced  to  submit  to  a 
white  dress,  a  hne  of  pearls  round  the  shapely  throat,  a  flower 
in  the  brown  hair,  put  there  by  Rose's  imperious  fingers ;  to 
sit  in  a  corner  well  out  of  draughts,  watching  the  effect  of 
Rose's  half-fledged  beauty,  and  drinking  in  the  compHments 
of  the  neighborhood  on  Rose's  playing  or  Agnes's  conversa- 
tion, or  Catherine's  practical  ability— these  were  Mrs.  Ley- 
bum's  passions,  and  a  tea-party  always  gratified  them  to  the 
full. 

''Mamma  asks  as  if  really  she  wanted  an  answer,"  re- 
marked Agnes,  dryly.  '^Dear  mother,  can't  you  by  now 
make  up  a  tea-party  at  the  Thornburghs  out  of  your  head?" 

"  The  Seatons?"  inquired  Mrs.  Leyburn. 

''Mrs.  Seaton  and  Miss  Barks,"  replied  Rose.  "The  rector 
won't  come.  And  I  needn't  say  that,  having  moved  heaven 
and  earth  to  get  Mrs.  Seaton,  Mrs.  Thombin-gh  is  now  misera- 
ble because  she  has  got  her.  Her  ambition  is  gratified,  but  she 
knows  that  she  has  spoiled  the  party.  Well,  then,  Mr.  May- 
hew,  of  course,  his  son,  and  his  flute." 

''You  to  play  his  accompaniments?"  put  in  Agnes,  slyly. 
Rose's  lip  curled. 

"  Not  if  Miss  Barks  knows  it,"  she  said,  emphatically,  "nor 
if  I  know  it.  The  Bakers,  of  course,  ourselves,  and  the  un- 
known." 

"  Dr.  Baker  is  always  pleasant,"  said  llxs.  Leyburn,  leaning 
back  and  drawing  her  white  shawl  languidly  round  her. 
"He  told  me  the  other  day,  Catherine,  that  if  it  weren't  for 
you  he  should  have  to  retire.  He  regards  you  as  his  jimior 
partner.  '  Marvelous  nursing  gift  your  eldest  daughter  has, 
Mrs.  Leyburn,'  he  said  to  me  the  other  day.  A  most  agreea- 
ble man." 

"  I  wonder  if  I  shall  be  able  to  get  any  candid  opinions  out 
of  Mr.  Elsmere  the  day  after  to-morrow?"  said  Rose,  musing. 
"It  is  difficult  to  avoid  having  an  opinion  of  some  sort  about 
Mrs.  Seaton." 

"  Oxford  dons  don't  gossip  and  are  never  candid,"  remarked 
Agnes,  severely. 

Then  Oxford  dons  must  be  very  dull, "  cried  Rose.  ' '  How- 
ever,"  and  her  countenance  brightened,  "  if  he  stays  here  four 
weeks  we  can  teach  him. " 


ROBEET  ELSMERE. 


15 


Catherine,  meanwhile,  sat  watching  the  two  girls  with  a 
soft,  elder  sister's  indulgence.  Was  it  in  connection  with  their 
bright  attractive  looks  that  the  thought  flitted  through  her 
head:  "  I  wonder  what  the  young  man  will  be  like?" 

Oh,  by  the  way,"  said  Eose,  presently,  ''I  had  nearly  for- 
gotten Mrs.  Thornburgh's  two  messages.  I  informed  her, 
Agnes,  that  you  had  given  up  water-color  and  meant  to  try 
oUs,  and  she  told  me  to  implore  you  not  to,  because  *  water- 
color  is  so  much  more  lady-hke  than  oils.'  And  as  for  you, 
Catherine,  she  sent  you  a  most  special  message.  I  was  to  tell 
you  that  she  just  loved  the  way  you  had  taken  to  plaiting  your 
hair  lately— that  it  was  exactly  like  the  picture  of  Jeanie 
Deans  she  has  in  the  drawing-room,  and  that  she  would  never 
forgive  you  if  you  didn't  plait  it  so  to-morrow  night." 

Catherine  flushed  faintly  as  she  got  up  from  the  table. 

''Mrs.  Thornburgh  has  eagle-eyes,"  she  said,  moving  away 
to  give  her  arm  to  her  mother,  who  looked  fondly  at  her,  mak- 
ing some  remark  in  praise  of  Mrs.  Thornburgh's  taste. 

''Rose!"  cried  Agnes,  indignantly,  when  the  other  two  had 
disappeared,  "you  and  Y.rs.  Thornburgh  have  not  the  sense 
you  were  bom  with.  What  on  earth  did  you  say  that  to 
Catherine  for?" 

Rose  stared ;  then  her  face  fell  a  little. 

"I  suppose  it  was  foolish,"  she  admitted..  Then  she  leaned 
her  head  on  one  hand  and  drew  meditative  patterns  on  the 
table-cloth  with  the  other.  "You  know,  Agnes,"  she  said, 
presently,  looking  up,  "  there  are  drawbacks  to  having  a  Saint 
Elizabeth  for  a  sister." 

Agnes  discreetly  made  no  reply,  and  Rose  was  left  alone. 
She  sat  dreaming  a  few  minutes,  the  corners  of  the  red  mouth 
drooping.  Then  she  sprang  up  with  a  long  sigh.  "A  little 
life !"  she  said,  half  aloud,  "  a  little  wichedness  and  she  shook 
her  curly  head  defiantly. 

A  few  minutes  later,  in  the  little  drawing-room  on  the  other 
side  of  the  hall,  Catherine  and  Rose  stood  together  by  the  open 
window.  For  the  first  time  in  a  lingering  spring,  the  air 
was  soft  and  balmy;  a  tender  grayness  lay  over  the  valley;  it 
was  not  night,  though  above  the  clear  outlines  of  the  fell  the 
stars  were  just  twinkling  in  the  pale  blue.  Far  away  under 
the  crag  on  the  further  side  of  High  Fell  a  light  was  shining.. 
As  Catherine's  eyes  caught  it  there  was  a  quick  response  in 
the  fine  Madonna  like  face. 


16 


ROBEBr  ELSMERE. 


'*Any  news  for  me  from  the  Backhouses  this  afternoon?'* 
she  asked  Eose. 

No,  I  heard  of  none.    How  .is  she?" 

Dying,"  said  Catherine,  simply,  and  stood  a  moment  look- 
ing out.  Rose  did  not  interrupt  her.  She  knew  that  the 
house  from  which  the  Ught  was  shining  sheltered  a  tragedy ; 
she  guessed  with  the  vagueness  of  nineteen  that  it  was  a  trag- 
edy of  passion  and  sin;  but  Catherine  had  not  been  communi- 
cative on  the  subject,  and  Rose  had  for  some  time  past  set  up 
a  dumb  resistance  to  her  sister's  most  characteristic  ways  of 
-  life  and  thought,  which  prevented  her  now  from  asking  ques- 
tions. She  wished  nervously  to  give  Catherine's  extraordinary 
moral  strength  no  greater  advantage  over  her  than  she  could 
help. 

Presently,  however,  Catherine  threw  her  arm  round  her  with 
a  tender  protectingness. 

What   did  you  do  with  yourself  all  the  afternoon, 

Roschen?" 

I  practiced  for  two  hours,"  said  the  girl,  shortly,  ''and  two 
hours  this  morning.    My  Spohr  is  nearly  perfect." 

"And  you  didn't  look  into  the  school  ?"  asked  Catherine, 
hesitating;  "  I  know  Miss  Merry  expected  you." 

*'  No,  I  didn't.  When  one  can  play  the  vioHn  and  can't 
teach  any  more  than  a  cockatoo,  what's  the  good  of  wasting 
one's  time  in  teaching  ?" 

Catherine  did  not  reply.  A  minute  after  Mrs.  LeybTim 
called  her,  and  she  went  to  sit  on  a  stool  at  her  mother's  feet, 
her  hands  resting  on  the  elder  woman's  lap,  the  whole  attitude 
of  the  tall  active  figure  one  of  beautiful  and  child-Uke  abandon- 
ment. Mrs.  Leyburn  wanted  to  confide  in  her  about  a  new 
cap,  and  Catherine  took  up  the  subject  with  a  zest  which  kept 
her  mother  happy  till  bed-time. 

"Why  couldn't  she  take  as  much  interest  in  my  Spohr  ?" 
thought  Rose. 

Late  that  night,  long  after  she  had  performed  all  a  maid's 
offices  for  her  mother,  Catherine  Leyburn  was  busy  in  her  own 
room  arranging  a  large  cupboard  containing  medicines  and  or- 
dinary medical  necessaries,  a  store-house  whence  all  the  sim- 
plier  emergencies  of  their  end  of  the  valley  were  supplied.  She 
had  put  on  a  white  flannel  dressing-gown  and  moved  noiselessly 
about  in  it,  the  very  embodiment  of  order,  of  purity,  of  qmet 
energy.    The  little  white-curtained  room  was  bareness  and 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


17 


neatness  itself.  There  were  a  few  book-shelves  along  the  walls, 
holding  the  books  which  her  father  had  given  her.  Over  the 
bed  were  two  enlarged  portraits  of  her  parents,  and  a  line  of 
queer  httle  faded  monstrosities,  representing  Rose  and  Agnes 
in  different  stages  of  childhood.  On  the  table  beside  the  bed 
was  a  pile  of  well-worn  books— Keble,  Jeremy  Taylor,  the 
Bible — connected  in  the  mind  of  the  mistress  of  the  room  with 
the  intensest  moments  of  the  spiritual  life.  There  was  a  strip 
of  carpet  by  the  bed,  a  plain  chair  or  two,  a  large  press ;  other- 
wise no  furniture  that  was  not  absolutely  necessary,  and  no 
ornaments.  And  yet,  for  all  its  emptiness,  the  httle  room  in 
its  order  and  spotlessness  had  the  look  and  spell  of  a  sanctuary. 

When  her  task  was  finished  Catherine  came  forward  to  the 
infinitesimal  dressing-table,  and  stood  a  moment  before  the 
common  cottage  looking-glass  upon  it.  The  candle  behind  her 
showed  her  the  outhnes  of  her  head  and  face  in  shadow  against 
the  white  ceiling.  Her  soft  brown  hair  was  plaited  liigh  above 
the  broad  white  brow,  giving  to  it  an  added  statehness,  while 
it  left  unmasked  the  pure  lines  of  the  neck.  Mrs.  Thornburgh 
and  her  mother  were  quite  right.  Simple  as  the  new  arrange- 
ment was,  it  could  hardly  have  been  more  effective. 
^  But  the  looking-glass  got  no  smile  in  return  for  its  informa- 
tion. Catherine  Leyburn  was  young;  she  was  alone;  she  was 
being  very  plainly  told  that,  taken  as  a  whole,  she  was,  or 
might  be  at  any  moment,  a  beautiful  woman.  And  all  her 
answer  was  a  frown  and  a  quick  movement  away  from  the 
glass.  Putting  up  her  hands  she  began  to  undo  the  plaits  with 
haste,  almost  with  impatience;  she  smoothed  the  whole  mass 
then  set  free  into  the  severest  order,  plaited  it  closely  together, 
and  then,  putting  out  her  light,  threw  herself  on  her  knees  be- 
side the  window,  which  was  partly  open  to  the  starlight  and 
the  mountains.  The  voice  of  the  river  far  away,  wafted  from 
the  mist-covered  depths  of  the  valley,  and  the  faint  rusthng  of 
the  trees  just  outside,  were  for  long  after  the  only  sounds  which 
broke  the  silence. 

When  Catherine  appeared  at  breakfast  next  morning  her 
hair  was  plainly  gathered  into  a  close  knot  behind,  which  had 
been  her  way  of  dressing  it  since  she  was  thirteen.  Agnes 
threw  a  quick  look  at  Rose;  Mrs.  Leyburn,  as  soon  as  she  had 
made  out  through  her  spectacles  what  was  the  matter,  broke 
into  warm  expostulations. 


a 


18 


R013E2T  ELSMEEE. 


It  is  more  comfortable,  dear  mother,  and  takes  much  less 
time,"  said  Catherine,  reddening. 

''Poor  Mi^.  Thornburghl"  remarked  Agnes,  dryly. 

"Oh,  Eose  will  make  up!'**said  Catherine,  glancing,  not 
without  a  spark  of  mischief  in  her  gray  eyes,  at  Eose's  tor- 
tured locks;  '^and  mannna's  new  cap,  which  will  be  superb!'' 

CHAPTEE  n. 

About  four  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  the  day  which  was 
to  be  marked  in  the  annals  of  Long  Whindale  as  that  of  Mi-s. 
Thoraburgh's  "high  tea,"  that  lady  was  seated  in  the  vicarage 
garden,  her  spectacles  on  her  nose,  a  large  couvre-pied  over 
her  knees,  and  the  Whinborough  newspaper  on  her  lap.  The 
neighborhood  of  this  last  enabled  her  to  make  an  intermittent 
pretense  of  reading ;  but  in  reality  the  energies  of  her  house- 
wifely mind  were  taken  up  with  quite  other  things.  The 
vicar's  wife  was  plunged  in  a  housekeeping  experiment  of 
absorbing  interest.  All  her  solid  preparations  for  the  evening 
were  over,  and  in  her  own  mind  she  decided  that  with  them 
there  was  no  possible  fault  to  be  found.  The  cook,  Sarah,  had 
gone  about  her  work  in  a  spirit  at  once  lavish  and  fastidious, 
breathed  into  her  by  her  mistress.  No  better  tongue,  no 
plumper  chickens,  than  those  which  would  grace  her  board 
to-night  were  to  be  found,  so  Mrs.  Thornburgh  was  persuaded, 
in  the  district.  And  so  with  everything  else  of  a  substantial 
kind.    On  this  head  the  hostess  felt  no  anxieties. 

But  a  "tea"  in  the  north  country  depends  for  distiaction, 
not  on  its  solids  or  its  savories,  but  on  its  sweets.  A  rural 
hostess  earns  her  reputation,  not  by  a  discriminating  eye  for 
butcher's  meat,  but  by  her  inventiveness  in  cakes  and  custards. 
And  it  was  just  here,  with  regard  to  this  bubble  reputation," 
that  the  vicar's  wife  of  Long  Whindale  was  particularly  sensi- 
tive. Was  she  not  expecting  Mrs.  Seaton,  the  wife  of  the  Eec- 
tor  of  Whinborough — odious  woman — to  tea?  Was  it  not  in- 
cumbent on  her  to  do  well,  nay,  to  do  brilliantly,  in  the  eyes 
of  this  local  magnate?  And  how  was  it  possible  to  do  brilliantly 
in  this  matter  with  a  cook  whose  recipes  were  hopelessly  old- 
fashioned,  and  who  had  an  exasperating  beUef  in  the  suffi- 
ciency of  buttered  "  whigs"  and  home-made  marmalade  for  all 
requirements?  Stung  by  these  thoughts,  Mrs.  Thornburgh 
had  gone  prowling  about  the  neighboring  town  of  Whinbor- 


HOBEHT  ELSMERE. 


19 


ough  till  the  shop  window  of  a  certain  newly-arrived  confec- 
tioner had  been  revealed  to  her,  stored  with  the  most  airy  and 
appetizing  trifles — of  a  make  and  coloring  quite  metropolitan. 
She  had  flattened  her  gray  cm^ls  against  the  window  for  one 
deliberate  moment ;  had  then  rushed  in ;  and  as  soon  as  the 
carrier's  cart  of  Long  Whindale,  w^hich  she  was  now  anxiously 
awaiting,  should  have  arrived,  bearing  with  it  the  produce  of 
that  adventure,  Mrs.  Thornburgh  would  be  a  proud  woman, 
prepared  to  meet  the  legion  of  rectors'  wives  without  flinching. 
Not,  indeed,  in  all  respects  a  woman  at  peace  with  herself  and 
the  world.  In  the  country,  where  every  household  should  be 
seK-contained,  a  certain  discredit  attaches  in  every  well-regu- 
lated mind  to  "  getting  things  in."  Mrs.  Thornburgh  was  also 
nervous  at  the  thought  of  the  bill.  It  would  have  to  be  met 
gradually  out  of  the  weekly  money.  For  ^'WilUam"  was  to 
know  nothing  of  the  matter,  except  so  far  as  a  few  magnificent 
generalities  and  the  testimony  of  his  own  dazzled  eyes  might 
inform  him.  But  after  all,  in  this  as  in  everything  else,  one 
must  suffer  to  be  distinguished. 

The  carrier,  however,  Hngered.  And  at  last  the  drowsiness  of 
the  afternoon  overcame  even  those  pleasing  expectations  we 
have  described,  and  Mrs.  Thornburgh's  newspaper  dropped  un- 
heeded to  her  feet.  The  vicarage,  under  the  shade  of  which 
she  was  sitting,  was  a  new  gray-stone  building  with  wooden 
gables,  occupying  the  side  of  what  had  once  been  the  earlier 
vicarage  house  of  Long  Whindale,  the  primitive  dwelling- 
house  of  an  incumbent,  whose  chapelry,  after  sundry  aug- 
mentations, amounted  to  just  twenty-seven  pounds  a  year. 
The  modern  house,  though  it  only  contained  sufficient  accom- 
modation for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Thornburgh,  one  guest,  and  two' 
maids,  would  have  seemed  palatial  to  those  rustic  clerics  of  the 
past  from  whose  ministrations  the  lonely  valley  had  drawn  its 
spiritual  sustenance  in  times  gone  by.  They,  indeed,  had  be- 
longed to  another  race— a  race  sprung  from  the  soil  and  con- 
tent to  spend  the  whole  of  life  in  very  close  contact  and  very 
homely  intercourse  with  their  mother  earth.  Mr.  Thornburgh, 
who  had  come  to  ^the  valley  only  a  few  years  before  from  a 
parish  in  one  of  the  large  manufacturing  towns,  and  who  had 
Ho  inherited  interest  in  the  Cumbrian  folk  and  their  ways,  had 
only  a  very  faint  idea,  and  that  a  distinctly  deprecatory  one,  of 
what  these  mythical  predecessors  of  his,  with  their  strange  social 
status  and  unbecoming  occupations,  might  be  like.    But  there 


20 


EGBERT  ELSMEEE. 


were  one  or  two  old  men  still  lingering  in  the  dale  who  cotilc 
have  told  him  a  great  deal  about  them,  whose  memory  wein 
back  to  the  days  when  the  relative  social  importance  of  the 
dale  parsons  was  exactly  expressed  by  the  characteristic 
Westmoreland  saying :  '  Ef  ye'll  nobbut  send  us  a  gude  schule- 
measter,  a  verra'  moderate  parson  'ull  deal"  and  whose  slow 
minds,  therefore,  were  filled  with  a  strong  inarticulate  sense 
of  difference  as  they  saw  him  pass  along  the  road,  and  recalled 
the  incumbent  of  their  childhood,  dropping  in  for  his  crack" 
and  his  glass  of  "  yale"  at  this  or  that  farm-house  on  any  occa- 
sion of  local  festivity,  or  driving  his  sheep  to  Wliinborough 
Market  with  his  own  hands  like  any  other  peasant  of  the  dale.l 

Within  the  last  twenty  years,  however,  the  few  remaining 
survivors  of  this  primitive  clerical  order  in  the  Westmoreland 
and  Cumberland  valleys  have  dropped  into  their  quiet  unre- 
membered  graves,  and  new  men  of  other  ways  and  other 
modes  of  speech  reign  in  their  stead.  And  as  at  Long  Whindale, 
so  almost  everywhere,  the  change  has  been  emphasized  by  -the 
disappearance  of  the  old  parsonage  houses  with  their  stone 
floors,  their  parlors  lustrous  with  oak  carving  on  chest  or 
dresser,  and  their  encircling  farm-buildings  and  meadows,  in 
favor  of  an  upgrowth  of  new,  trim  mansions  designed  to  meet 
the  needs,  not  of  peasants,  but  of  gentlefolks. 

And  naturally  the  churches  too  have  shared  in  the  process  of 
transformation.  The  ecclesiastical  revival  of  the  last  half  cent- 
ury has  worked  its  will  even  in  the  remotest  comers  of  the 
Cumbrian  country,  and  soon  not  a  vestige  of  the  homely  wor- 
shiping-places  of  an  earlier  day  will  remain.  Across  the  road, 
in  front  of  the  Long  Whindale  parsonage,  for  instance,  rose  a 
freshly  built  church,  also  peaked  and  gabled,  with  a  spire  and 
two  bells,  and  a  painted  east  window,  and  Heaven  knows  what 
novelties  besides.  The  primitive  whitewashed  structure  it  re- 
placed had  lasted  long,  and  in  the  course  of  many  generations 
time  had  clothed  its  moss-grown  walls,  its  slated  porch,  and 
tombstones  worn  with  rain  in  a  certain  beauty  of  congruity  and  1 
association,  linking  it  with  the  purple  distances  of  the  fells,  and 
the  brawling  river  bending  round  the  gray  inclosure.  But 
finally,  after  a  period  of  quiet  and  gradual  decay,  the  ruin  of 
Long  Whindale  Chapel  had  become  a  quick  and  hurrying  ruin 
that  would  not  be  arrested.  .  When  the  rotten  timbers  of  the 
roof  came  dropping  on  the  farmers'  heads,  and  the  oak  benches 
beneath  offered  gaps,  the  ^>*eography  of  which  had  to  be  caro' 


KOBERT  JELSMERE. 


fully  learned  by  the  substantial  persons  who  sat  on  them,  lest 
they  should  be  overtaken  by  undignified  disaster;  when  the 
rain  poured  in  on  the  Communion  Table,  and  the  wind  raged 
through  innumerable  mortarless  chinks,  even  the  slowly  mov- 
ing folk  of  the  valley  came  to  the  conclusion  that  "summat  'ull 
hevtobe  deun."  And  by  the  help  of  the  bishop  and  Queen 
Anne's  bounty,  and  what  not,  aided  by  just  as  many  half 
crowns  as  the  valley  found  itself  unable  to  defend  against  the 
encroachments  of  a  new  and  '^moiderin"  parson,  ^'summat" 
was  done,  whereof  the  results— namely,  the  new  church,  vicar- 
age, and  school-house — were  now  conspicuous. 

This  radical  change,  however,  had  not  been  the  work  of  Mr. 
Thornburgh,  but  of  his  predecessor,  a  much  more  pushing  and 
enterprising  man,  whose  successful  efforts  to  improve  the 
church  accommodation  in  Long  Whindale  had  moved  such 
deep  and  lasting  astonishment  in  the  mind  of  a  somewhat 
lethargic  bishop,  that  promotion  had  been  readily  found  for 
him.  Mr.  Thornburgh  was  neither  capable  of  the  sturdy  beg- 
ging which  had  raised  the  church,  nor  was  he  likely  on  other 
lines  to  reach  preferment.  He  and  his  wife,  who  possessed 
much  more'sahence  of  character  than  he,  were  accepted  in  the 
dale  as  belonging  to  the  established  order  of  things.  Nobody 
wished  them  any  harm,  and  the  few  people  they  had  specially 
befriended,  naturally,  thought  well  of  them. 

But  the  old  intimacy  of  relation  which  had  once  subsisted 
between  the  clergyman  of  Long  Whindale  and  his  parishioners 
was  wholly  gone.  They  had  sunk  in  the  scale ;  the  parson  had 
risen.  The  old  statesmen  or  peasant  proprietors  of  the  valley 
had  for  the  most  part  succumbed  to  various  destructive  influ- 
ences, some  social,  some  economical,  added  to  a  certain  amount 
of  corrosion  from  within ;  and  their  place  had  been  taken  by 
leaseholders,  less  drunken  perhaps,  and  better  educated,  but 
also  far  less  shrewd  and  individual,  and  lacking  in  the  rude 
dignity  of  their  predecessors. 

And  as  the  land  had  lost,  the  church  had  gained.  The  place 
of  the  dalesmen  knew  them  no  more,  but  the  church  and  par- 
sonage had  got  themselves  rebuilt,  the  parson  had  had  his  in- 
come raised,  had  let  off  his  glebe  to  a  neighboring  farmer,  kept 
two  maids,  and  drank  claret  when  he  drank  anything.  His 
flock  were  friendly  enough,  and  paid  their  commuted  tithes 
without  grumbling.  But  between  them  and  a  perfectly  well- 
meaning  but  rather  dull  man.  who  stood  on  his  dignity  and 


22 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


wore  a  black  coat  all  the  week,  there  was  no  real  community. 
Rejoice  in  it  as  we  may,  in  this  final  passage  of  Parson  Prim- 
rose to  social  regions  beyond  the  ken  of  Farmer  Flamborough, 
there  are  some  elements  of  loss,  as  there  are  in  all  changes. 

Wheels  on  the  road !  Mrs.  Thomburgh  woke  up  with  a  start^ 
and  stumbling  over  newspaper  and  couvre-pied^  hurried  across 
the  lawn  as  fast  as  her  short  squat  figure  would  allow,  gray 
curls  and  cap-strings  flymg  behind  her.  She  heard  a  colloquy 
in  the  distance  in  broad  Westmoreland  dialect,  and  as  she 
turned  the  corner  of  the  house  she  nearly  ran  into  her  tall 
cook,  Sarah,  whose  impassive  and  saturnine  countenance  bore 
traces  of  unusual  excitement. 

''Missis,  there's  naw  cakes.  They're  all  left  behind  on  t' 
counter  at  Randall's.  Mr.  Backhouse  says  as  how  he  told  old 
Jim  to  go  fur  'em,  and  he  niver  went,  and  Mr.  Backhouse  he 
niver  found  oot  till  he'd  got  past  t'  bridge,  and  then  it  wur  too 
late  to  go  back." 

Mrs.  Thornburgh  stood  transfixed,  something  of  her  fresh 
pink  color  slowly  deserting  her  face^  as  she  reahzed  the  enor- 
mity of  the  catastrophe.  And  was  it  possible  that  there  was 
the  faintest  twinkle  of  grim  satisfaction  on  the  face  of  that 
elderly  minx,  Sarah? 

Mrs.  Thornburgh,  however,  did  not  stay  to  explore  the 
recesses  of  Sarah's  mind,  but  ran  with  httle  pattering,  im- 
dignified  steps  across  the  front  garden  and  down  the  steps  to 
where  Mr.  Backhouse  the  carrier  stood,  bracing  himself  for 
self-defense. 

"  Ya  may  weel  fret,  mum,"  said  Mr.  Backhouse,  interrupt- 
ing the  flood  of  her  reproaches,  with  the  comparative  sang- 
froid of  one  who  knew  that,  after  all,  he  was  the  only  carrier 
on  the  road,  and  that  the  vicarage  was  five  miles  from  the  nec- 
essaries of  life;  "it's  a  bad  job,  and  I's  not  goin'  to  say  it  isn't. 
But  ya  jest  look  'ere,  mum,  what's  a  man  to  du  wi'  a  daft 
thingamy  Uke  that,  as  caan't  teak  a  plain  order,  and  spiles  a 
'  poor  man's  business  as  caan't  help  hissel'-^" 

And  Mr.  Backhouse  pointed  with  withering  scorn  to  a  small, 
shrunken  old  man,  who  sat  danghng  his  legs  on  the  shaft  of 
the  cart,  and  whose  countenance  wore  a  singular  expression  of 
mingled  meelqiess  and  composure,  as  his  partner  flourished  an 
indignant  finger  toward  him. 

"Jim,"  cried  Mi-s.  Thornburgh,  reproachfully,  "I  did  think 
you  would  have  taken  more  pains  about  my  oi'der !" 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


23 


Yis,  mum,"  said  the  old  man,  placidly,  ya  might  V  thowt 
it.  I's  reet  sorry,  bit  ya  caan't  help  these  things  st^m-times — 
an'  it's  naw  gud  a-hollerin'  ower  'em  like  a-mad  bull.  Aa  tuke 
yur  bit  paper  to  Randall's  and  aa  laf  t  it  wi'  'em  to  mek  up,  an' 
than,  aa,  weel,  aa  went  to  a  frind,  an'  ee  may  hev  giv'  me  a 
glass  of  yale,  aa  doon't  say  ee  dud — but  ee  may,  I  ween't  sweer. 
Hawsomiver,  aa  niver  thowt  naw  mair  aboot  it,  nor  mair  did 
John,  so  ee  needn't  taak — till  we  wur  jest  two  mile  from  'ere. 
An'  ee's  a  gon'  on  sense !  My !  an'  a  larroping  the  poor  beeast 
like  onything !" 

Mrs.  Thornburgh  stood  aghast  at  the  calmness  of  this  auda- 
cious recital.  As  for  John,  he  looked  on  surveying  his  brother's 
philosophical  demeanor  at  first  with  speechless  wrath,  and 
then  with  an  inscrutable  mixture  of  expressions,  in  which, 
however,  any  one  accustomed  to  his  weather-beaten  counte- 
nance would  have  probably  read  a  hidden  admiration. 

"Weel,  aa  niver!"  he  exclaimed,  when  Jim's  explanatory 
remarks  had  come  to  an  end,  swinging  hinaself  up  on  to  his 
seat  and  gathering  up  the  reins.  ''Yur  a  boald  'un  to  tell  the 
missus  theer  to  hur  feeace  as  how  ya  wur  'tossicatit  whan  yur 
,  owt  ta  been  duing  yur  larful  business.  Aa've  doon  wi'  yer. 
Aa  aims  to  please  ma  coostomers,  an'  aa  caan't  abide  sek  wark. 
Yur  like  on  oald  kneyfe,  I  can  mak'  nowt  o'  ya',  nowder  back 
nor  edge. 

Mrs.  Thornburgh  wrung  her  fat  short  hands  in  despair,  mak- 
ing little  incoherent  laments  and  suggestions  as  she  saw  him 
about  to  depart,  of  which  John  at  last  gathered  the  main  pur- 
port to  be  that  she  wished  him  to  go  back  to  Whinborough  for 
her  precious  parcel. 

He  shook  his  head  compassionately  over  the  preposterous 
state  of  mind  betrayed  by  such  a  demand,  and  with  a  fresh 
burst  of  abuse  of  his  brother,  and  an  assurance  to  the  vicar's 
wife  that  he  meant  to  ''  gie  that  oald  man  nawtice  when  he  got 
haum;  he  wasn't  goan  to  hey  his  bisness  spiled  for  nowt  by  an 
oald  ijiot  wi'  a  hed  as  full  o'  yale  as  a  hay-rick's  full  of  mic5," 
he  raised  his  whip  and  the  clattering  vehicle  moved  forward ; 
Jim  meanwhile  preserving  through  all  his  brother's  wrath  and 
Mrs.  Thomburgh's  wailings  the  same  mild  and  even  counte- 
nance,  the  meditative  and  friendly  aspect  of  the  philosopher 
letting  the  world  go  ''as  e'en  it  will." 

So  Mrs.  Thornburgh  was  left  gasping,  watching  the  progress 
<^t  the  lumbering  cart  along  the  bit  of  road  leading  to  the  ham- 


24 


ROBEBT  ELSMERE. 


let  at  the  head  of  the  valley,  with  so  limp  and  crest-faller. 
an  aspect  that  even  the  gaunt  and  secretly  jubilant  Sarah  wafc 
moved  to  pity. 

"Why,  missis,  we'll  do  very  well.  I'll  hev  some  scones  in 
t'  oven  in  naw  time,  an'  theer's  finger  biscuits,  an'  wi'  buttered 
toast  an'  sum  o' t'  best  jams,  if  they  don't  hev  enuf  to  eat  they, 
ought  to."  Then,  dropping  her  voice,  she  asked,  with  a  hur- 
ried change  of  tone:  "Did  ye  ask  un'  hoo  his  daater  is?" 

Mrs.  Thornburgh  started.  Her  pastoral  conscience  was 
smitten.  She  opened  the  gate  and  waved  violently  after  the 
cart.  John  pulled  his  horse  up,  and  with  a  few  quick  steps, 
she  brought  herself  within  speaking,  or  rather  shouting,  dis- 
tance. 

"How's  your  daughter  to-day,  John?"  '  i 

The  old  man's  face,  peering  round  the  oil-cloth  hood  of  the 
cart,  was  darkened  by  a  sudden  cloud  as  he  caught  the  words. 
His  stern  lips  closed.  He  muttered  something  inaudible  to 
Mrs.  Thornburgh  and  whipped  up  his  horse  again.  The  cart 
started  off,  and  Mrs.  Thornburgh  was  left  staring  into  the  re- 
ceding eyes  of  "Jim  the  Noodle,"  who,  from  his  seat  on  the 
near  shaft,  regarded  her  with  a  gaze  which  had  passed  from 
benevolence  into  a  preternatural  solemnity. 

"He  sparin'  ov  'is  speach  is  John  Backhouse,"  said  Sarah, 
grimly,  as  her  mistress  retin*ned  to  her.  "May  be  ee's  aboot 
reet.    It's  a  bad  business  an'  ee'll  not  mend  it  wi'  taakin'." 

Mrs.  Thornburgh,  however,  could  not  apply  herself  to  the 
care  of  Mary  Backhouse.  At  any  other  moment  it  would  have 
excited  in  her  breast  the  shuddering  interest  which,  owing  to 
certain  peculiar  attendant  cn-cumstances,  it  awakened  in  every 
other  woman  in  Long  Whindale.  But  her  mind — such  are  the 
limitations  of  even  clergyman's  wives — was  now  absorbed  by 
her  own  misfortune.  Her  very  cap-strings  seemed  to  hang 
limp  with  depression,  as  she  followed  Sarah  dejectedly  into  the 
kitchen,  and  gave  what  attention  she  could  to  those  second- 
*  best  arrangements  so  depressing  to  the  idealist  temper. 

Poor  soul !  AU  the  charm  and  glitter  of  her  little  social  ad- 
venture was  gone.  When  she  once  more  emerged  upon  the 
lawn,  and  languidly  readjusted  her  spectacles,  she  was  weighed 
down  by  the  thought  that  in  two  hours  Mrs.  Seaton  would  be 
upon  her.  Nothing  of  this  kind  ever  happened  to  Mrs.  Sea- 
ton.  The  universe  obeyed  her  nod.  No  carrier  conveying 
goods  to  her  august  door  ever  got  drunk  or  failed  to  deliver  his 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


25 


onsignment.  The  thing  wasjnconceivable.  Mrs.  Thornburgh 
ras  well  aware  of  it. 

Should  Wilham  be  informed  ?  Mrs.  Thornburgh  had  a  rooted 
elief  in  the  brutahty  of  husbands  in  all  domestic  crises,  and 
rould  have  preferred  not  to  inform  him.  But  she  had  also  a 
ismal  certainty  that  the  secret  would  burn  a  hole  in  her  till  it 
ras  confessed— bill  and  all.  Besides— frightful  thought  !— 
^ould  they  have  to  eat  up  all  those  meringues  next  day? 
Her  reflections  at  last  became  so  depressing  that,  with  a  nat- 
ral  epicurean  instinct,  she  tried  violently  to  turn  her  mind 
way  from  them.  Luckily  she  was  assisted  by  a  sudden  per- 
Bption  of  the  roof  and  chimneys  of  Burwood,  the  Leyburn's 
ouse,  peeping  above  the  trees  to^the  left.  At  sight  of  them  a 
nile  overspread  her  plump  and  gently  wrinked  face.  She  fell 
radually  into  a  train  of  thought,  as  feminine  as  that  in  which 
le  had  just  been  indulging,  but  infinitely  more  pleasing. 
For,  with  regard  to  the  Leyburns,  at  this  present  moment 
[rs.  Thornburgh  felt  herself  in  the  great  position  of  tutelary 
ivinity  or  guardian  angel.  At  least  if  divinities  and  guardian 
Qgels  do  not  concern  themselves  with  the  questions  to  which 
[rs.  Thornburgh's  mind  was  now  addressed,  it  would  clearly 
ave  been  the  opinion  of  the  vicar's  wife  that  they  ought  to  do 
). 

'*Who  else  is  there  to  look  after  these  girls,  I  should  like  to 
now,"  Mrs.  Thornburgh  inquired  of  herself,  ^'if  I  don't  do 
?  As  if  girls  married  themselves  !  People  may  talk  of  their 
idependence  nowadays  as  much  as  they  like — it  always  has  to 
3  done  for  them,  one  way  or  another.  Mrs.  Leyburn,  poor 
ickadaisical  thing  !  is  no  good  whatever.  No  more  is  Cath- 
dne.  They  both  behave  as  if  husbands  tumbled  into  your 
louth  for  the  asking.  Catherine's  too  good  for  this  world- 
Lit  if  she  doesn't  do  it,  I  must.  Why,  that  girl  Eose  is  a 
sauty— if  they  didn't  let  her  wear  those  ridiculous  mustard- 
)lored  things,  and  do  her  hair  fit  to  frighten  the  crows !  Agnes 
)o— so  lady-like  and  well-mannered;  she'd  do  credit  to  any 
lan.   Well,  we  shall  see,  we  shall  see !" 

And  Mrs.  Thornburgh  gently  shook  her  gray  curls  from  side 
)  side,  while  her  eyes,  fixed  on  the  open  spare- room  window, 
lone  with  meaning. 

*'So  eligible,  too— private  means,  no  incumbrances,  and  as 
Dod  as  gold." 

She  sat  lost  a  moment  in  a  pleasing  dream. 


26 


BOBERT  ELSMKRK. 


Shall  I  bring  oot  the  tea  to  you  theer,  mum  ?"  called 
Sarah,  gruffly,  from  the  garden  door.  Master  and  Mr.  Els 
mere  are  just  coomin'  down  t'  field  by  t'  stepping-stones." 

Mi^.  Thornburgh  signalled  assent  and  the  tea-table  was 
brought.  Afternoon  tea  was  by  no  means  a  regular  institution 
at  the  vicarage  of  Long  Whindale,  and  Sarah  never  supplied  it 
without  signs  of  protest.  But  when  a  guest  was  in  the  house 
Mrs.  Thornburgh  insisted  upon  it;  her  obstinacy  in  the  mat- 
ter, like  her  dreams  of  cakes  and  confections,  being  all  part  of 
her  determination  to  move  with  the  times,  in  spite  of  the  sta- 
tion to  which  Providence  had  assigned  her. 

A  minute  afterward  the  vicar,  a  thick-set,  gray-haired  man 
of  sixty,  accompanied  by  a  tall,  younger  man  in  clerical  dress, 
emerged  upon  the  lawn. 

''Welcome  sight!"  cried  Mr.  Thornburgh;  ^'Robert  and  I 
have  been  coveting  Ithat  tea  for  the  last  hour.  You  guessed 
very  well,  Emma,  to  have  it  just  ready  for  us." 

''Oh,  that  was  Sarah.  She  saw  you  coming  down  to  the 
stepping-stones,"  repKed  his  wife,  pleased,  however,  by  any 
mark  of  appreciation  from  her  mankind,  however  small. 
"  Eobert,  I  hope  you  haven't  been  walked  off  your  legs?" 

"  What,  in  this  air,  Cousin  Emma?  J  coiild  walk  from  sun- 
rise to  simdown.  Let  no  one  call  me  an  invalid  any  more. 
Henceforth  I  am  a  Hercules." 

And  he  threw  himself  on  the  rug  which  Mrs.  Thornburgh's 
motherly  providence  had  spread  on  the  grass  for  him,  with  a 
smile  and  a  look  of  supreme  physical  contentment,  which  did 
indeed  almost  efface  the  signs  of  recent  illness  in  the  ruddy 
boyish  face. 

Mrs.  Thornburgh  studied  him;  her  eye  caught  first  of  all  by 
the  stubble  of  reddish  hair  which  as  he  took  off  his  hat  stood 
up  straight  and  stiff  all  over  his  head  with  anodd  wildnessand 
aggressiveness.  She  involuntarily  thought,  basing  her  inward 
comment  on  a  complexity  of  reasons—*'  Dear  me,  what  a  pity'; 
it  spoils  his  appearance !" 

"I  apologize,  I  apologize.  Cousin  Emma,  once  for  all,"  said 
the  yoimg  man,  surprising  her  glance,  and  despairingly  smooth- 
ing down  his  recalcitrant  locks.  Let  us  hope  that  mountain 
air  will  quicken  the  pace  of  it  before  it  is  necessary  for  me  to 
present  a  dignified  appearance  at  Mure  well." 

He  looked  up  at  her  with  a  merry  flash  in  his  gray  eyes,  and 
her  old  face  brightened  visibly  as  she  realised  afresh  that  in 


ROBERT  ELSMERB. 


27 


spite  of  the  grotesqueness  of  his  cropped  haii-,  her  guest  was  a 
most  attractive  creature.  Not  that  he  could  l;)oast  much  in  the 
way  of  regular  good  looks:  the  mouth  was  large,  the  nose  of 
no  particular  outline,  and  in  general  the  cutting  of  the  face, 
though  strong  and  characteristic,  had  a  bluntness  and  naivete 
like  a  vigorous,  unfinished  sketch.  This  bluntness  of  line,  how- 
ever, was  balanced  by  a  great  dehcacy  of  tint— the  pink  and 
white  complexion  of  a  girl,  indeed— enhanced  by  the  bright 
reddish  hair,  and  quick  gray  eyes. 

The  figure  was  also  a  little  out  of  drawing,  so  to  speak  ;  it 
was  tall  and  loosely  jointed.  The  general  impression  was  one 
of  agility  and  power.  But  if  you  looked  closer  you  saw  that 
the  shoulders  were  narrow,  the  arms  inordinately  long,  and 
the  extremities  too  small  for  the  general  height.  Robert  Els- 
mere's  hand  was  the  hand  of  a  woman,  and  few  people  ever 
exchanged  a  first  greeting  with  its  very  tall  owner  without  a 
little  shock  of  surprise. 

Mr.  Thomburgh  and  his  guest  had  visited  a  few  houses  in  the 
course  of  their  walk,  and  the  vicar  plunged  for  a  minute  or  two 
into  some  conversation  about  local  matters  with  liis  wife.  But 
Mrs.  Thomburgh,  it  was  soon  evident,  was  giving  him  but  a 
scatter-brained  attention.  Her  secret  was  working  in  her  ample 
breast.  Very  soon  she  could  contain  it  no  longer,  and  break- 
ing in  upon  her  husband's  parish  news,  she  tumbled  it  all  out 
pell-mell,  with  a  mixture  of  discomfiture  and  defiance  infinite- 
ly diverting.  She  could  not  keep  a  secret,  but  she  also  could 
not  bear  to  give  William  an  advantage. 

William  certainly  took  his  advantage.  He  did  what  his  wife 
in  her  irritation  had  precisely  foreseen  that  he  would  do.  He 
first  stared,  then  fell  into  a  guffaw  of  laughter,  and  as  soon  as 
he  had  recovered  breath,  into  a  series  of  imfeeling  comments 
which  drove  Mrs.  Thomburgh  to  desperation. 

*'If  you  will  set  your  mind,  my  dear,  on  things  we  plain 
folks  can  do  perfectly  well  without" — et  ccetera,  et  ccetera— 
the  husband's  point  of  view  can  be  imagined.  Mrs.  Thorn- 
burgh  could  have  shaken  her  good  man,  especially  as  there  was 
nothing  new  to  her  in  his  remarks  ;  she  had  known  to  a  T  be- 
forehand exactly  what  he  would  say.  She  took  up  her  knit- 
ting in  a  great  hurry,  the  needles  clicking  angrily,  her  gray 
curls  quivering  under  the  energy  of  her  hands  and  arms, 
while  she  launched  at  her  husband  various  retorts  as  to  his 
lack  of  consideration  for  her  efforts  and  her  inconvenience, 


28 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


which  were  only  very  slightly  modified  by  the  presence  of  a 
stranger. 

Robert  Elsmere  meanwhile  lay  on  the  grsCss,  his  face  dis- 
creetly turned  away,  an  uncontrollable  smile  twitching  the 
comers  of  his  mouth.  Everything  was  fresh  and  piquant  up 
here  in  this  remote  corner  of  the  north  country,  whether  the 
mountain  air  or  the  wind-blown  streams,  or  the  manners  and 
customs  of  the  inhabitants.  His  cousin's  wife,  in  spite  of  her 
ambitious  conventionalities,  was  really  the  child  of  Nature  to  a 
refreshing  degree.  One  does  not  see  these  types,  he  said  to 
himself,  in  the  cultivated  monotony  of  Oxford  or  London. 
She  was  like  a  bit  of  a  by-gone  world— Miss  Austen's  or  Miss 
Ferrier's— unearthed  for  his  amusement.  He  could  not  for 
the  hfe  of  him  help  taking  the  scenes  of  this  remote  rural  ex- 
istence, which  was  quite  new  to  him,  as  though  they  were  the 
scenes  of  some  comedy  of  manners. 

Presently,  however,  the  vicar  became  aware  that  the  passage 
of  arms  between  himself  and  his  spouse  was  becoming  just  a 
little  indecorous.  He  got  up  with  a  Hem  !"  intended  to  put 
an  end  to  it,  and  deposited  his  cup. 

Well,  my  dear,  have  it  as  you  please.  It  all  comes  of  your 
determination  to  have  Mrs.  Seaton.  Why  couldn't  you  just 
ask  the  Leyburns  and  let  us  enjoy  ourselves  ?" 

With  this  final  shaft  he  departed  to  see  that  Jane,  the  little 
maid  whom  Sarah  ordered  about,  had  not,  in  cleaning  the  study 
for  the  evening's  festivities,  put  his  last  sermon  into  the  waste- 
paper  basket.  His  wife  looked  after  him  with  eyes  that  spoke 
unutterable  things. 

^'  You  would  never  think,"  she  said,  in  an  agitated  voice,  to 
young  Elsmere,  ^' that  I  had  consulted  Mr.  Thornburgh  as  to 
every  invitation,  that  he  entirely  agreed  with  me  that  one  must 
be  civil  to  Mrs.  Seaton,  considering  that  she  can  make  any- 
body's life  a  burden  to  them  about  here  that  isn't;  but  it's  no 
use." 

And  she  fell  back  on  her  knitting  with  redoubled  energy,  her 
face  full  of  a  half -tearful  intensity  of  meaning.  Robert  Els- 
mere restrained  a  strong  inclination  to  laugh,  and  set  himself 
instead  to  distract  and  console  her.  He  expressed  sympathy 
with  her  difficulties,  he  talked  to  her  about  her  party,  he  got 
from  her  the  names  ^nd  histories  of  the  guests.  How  Miss  Aus- 
tenish  it  sounded  :  the  managing  rector's  wife,  her  still  more 
m  anaging  old  maid  of  a  sister,  the  neighboring  clergyman  who 


BOBERT  ELSMERE. 


20 


played  the  flute,  the  local  doctor,  and  a  pretty  daughter  just 
out — Very  pretty,"  sighed  Mrs.  Thornburgh,  who  was  now 
depressed  all  round,  ^'  but  all  flounces  and  frills  and  nothing  to 
say"— and  last  of  all,  those  three  sisters,  the  Leybums,  who 
seemed  to  be  on  a  different  level,  and  who  he  heard  mentionecj 
so  often  since  his  arrival  by  both  husband  and  wife. 

^'Tell  me  about  the  Miss  Ley  burns,"  he  said,  presently. 
"You  and  Cousin  William  seem  to  have  a  great  affection  foi 
them.   Do  you  live  near  ?" 

"Oh,  quite  close,"  cried  Mrs.  Thornburgh,  brightening  at 
last,  and  like  a  great  general,  leaving  one  scheme  in  ruins,  only 
the  more  ardently  to  take  up  another.  "There  is  the  house, 
and  she  pointed  out  Burwood  among  its  trees.  Then  with  hei 
eye  eagerly  fixed  upon  him,  she  fell  into  a  more  or  less  incohC' 
rent  account  of  her  favorites.  She  laid  on  her  colors  thickly, 
and  Elsmere  at  once  assumed  extravagance. 

"A  saint,  a  beauty,  and  a  wit  all  to  yourselves  in  these 
wilds  !"  he  said,  laughing.  "What  luck  !  But  what  on  earth 
brought  them  here — a  widow  and  three  daughters— from  the 
south  ?  It  was  an  odd  settlement  surely,  though  you  have 
one  of  the  loveliest  valleys  and  the  purest  airs  in  England." 

**0h,  as  to  lovely  valleys,"  said  Mrs.  Thornburgh,  sighing, 

I  think  it  very  dull  ;  I  always  have.  When  one  has  to 
depend  for  everything  on  a  carrier  that  gets  drunk,  too  !  Why, 
you  know  they  belong  here.  They're  real  Westmoreland  peo- 
ple." 

What  does  that  mean  exactly  ?" 
*'0h,  their  grandfather  was  a  farmer,  just  like  one  of  the 
common  farmers  about.    Only  his  land  was  his  own,  and  their's 
isn't." 

'*He  was  one  of  the  last  of  the  statesmen,"  interposed  Mr. 
Thornburgh— who,  having  rescued  his  sermon  from  Jane's  ten- 
der mercies,  and  put  out  his  modest  claret  and  sherry  for  the 
evening,  had  strolled  oufc  again  and  found  himself  impelled  as 
usual  to  put  some  precision  into  his  wife's  statements—"  one  of 
the  small  freeholders  who  have  almost  disappeared  here  as 
elsewhere.  The  story  of  the  Ley  burns  always  seems  to  me 
typical  of  many  things." 

Robert  looked  inquiry,  and  the  vicar,  sitting  down — having 
first  picked  up  his  wife's  ball  of  wool  as  a  peace-offering,  which 
was  loftily  accepted— launched  into  a  narrative  which  may  be 
here  somewhat  condensed. 


30 


ROBERT  ELSMEK12. 


'*The  Leybm^ns'  grandfather,  it  appeared,  had  been  a  typical 
north  country  peasant— honest,  with  strong  passions  both  of 
love  and  hate,  thinking  nothing  of  knocking  down  his  wife  with 
a  poker,  and  frugal  in  all  things  save  drink.  Drink,  however, 
was  ultimately  his  ruin,  as  it  was  the  ruin  of  most  of  the  Cum- 
berland statesmen.      The  people  about  here,"  said  the  vicar, 

say  he  drank  away  an  acre  a  year.  He  had  some  fifty  acres, 
and  it  took  about  thirty  years  to  beggar  him." 

Meanwhile  this  brutal,  rolUcking,  strong-natured  person  had 
sons  and  daughters— plenty  of  them.  Most  of  them,  even  the 
daughters,  were  brutal  and  rollicking  too.  Of  one  of  the  daugh- 
ters, now  dead,  it  was  reported  that,  having  on  one  occasion 
discovered  her  father,  then  an  old  infirm  man,  sitting  calmly 
by  the  fire  beside  the  prostrate  form  of  his  wife,  whom  he  had 
just  felled  with  his  crutch,  she  had  taken  off  her  wooden  shoe 
and  given  her  father  a  clout'on  the  head  which  left  his  gray  hair 
streaming  with  blood ;  after  which  she  had  calmly  put  the  horse 
into  the  cart,  and  driven  off  to  fetch  the  doctor  to  both  her 
parents.  But  among  this  grim  and  earthy  crew  there  was  one 
exception,  a  ''hop  out  of  kin,"  of  whom  all  the  rest  made  sport. 
This  was  the  second  son,  Eichard,  who  showed  such  a  persistent 
tendency  to  ''book-lamin',"  and  such  a  persistent  idiocy  in  all 
matters  pertaining  to  the  land,  that  nothing  was  left  to  the 
father  at  last  but  to  send  him  with  many  oaths  to  the  grammar 
school  at  Whinborough.  From  the  moment  the  boy  got  a  foot- 
ing in  the  school  he  hardly  cost  his  father  another  penny.  He 
got  a  local  bursary  which  paid  his  school  expenses,  he  never 
missed  a  remove  or  failed  to  gain  a  prize,  and  finally  won  a 
close  scholarship  which  carried  him  triumphantly  to  Queen's 
College. 

His  family  watched  his  progress  with  a  gaping,  half -contempt- 
uous amazement,  till  he  announced  himself  as  safely  installed 
at  Oxford,  having  borrowed  from  a  Whinborough  patron  the 
modest  sum  necessary  to  pay  his  college  valuation— a  sum 
which  wild  horses  could  not  have  dragged  out  of  his  father, 
now  sunk  over  head  and  ears  in  debt  and  drink. 

From  that  moment  they  practically  lost  sight  of  him.  He 
sent  the  class  hst  which  contained  his  name  among  the  Firsts 
to  his  father  ;  in  the  same  way  he  communicated  the  news  ®f 
his  fellowship  at  Queen's,  his  ordination  and  his  appointment  to 
the  headmastership  of  a  south-country  grammar  school.  None 
t)f  his  communications  were  ever  answered  till,  in  the  very 


ROBEET  ELSMERE. 


31 


last  year  of  his  father's  life,  the  eldest  son,  who  had  a  shrewder 
eye  all  round  to  the  main  chance  than  the  rest,  applied  to 
Dick  "  for  cash  wherewith  to  meet  some  of  the  famUy  neces- 
sities. The  money  was  promptly  sent,  together  with  photo- 
graphs of  Dick's  wife  and  children.  These  last  were  not  taken 
much  notice  of.  These  Leybums  were  a  hard,  limited,  incuri- 
ous set,  and  they  no  longer  regarded  Dick  as  one  of  them- 
selves. 

^^Then  came  the  old  man's  death,"  said  Mr.  Thornburgh. 

It  happened  the  year  after  I  took  the  living.  Eichard  Ley- 
bum  was  sent  for  and  came.  I  never  saw  such  a  scene  in  my 
life  as  the  funeral  supper.  It  was  kept  up  in  the  old  style. 
Three  of  Leyburn's  sons  were  there  :  two  of  them  farmers  like 
himself,  one  a  clerk  from  Manchester,  a  daughter  married  to  a 
tradesman  in  Whinborough,  a  brother  of  the  old  man,  who  was 
under  the  table  before  supper  was  half  over,  and  so  on.  Eichard 
Leyburn  wrote  to  ask  me  to  come,  and  I  went  to  support  his 
cloth.  But  I  was  new  to  the  place,"  said  the  vicar,  flushing  a 
.  little,  "  and  they  belonged  to  a  race  that  had  never  been  used 
to  pay  much  respect  to  parsons.  To  see  that  man  among  the 
rest  !  He  was  thin  and  dignified ;  he  looked  to  me  as  if  he  had 
all  the  learning  imaginable,  and  he  had  large,  absent-looking  eyes 
which,  as  George,  the  eldest  brother,  said,  gave  you  the  impres- 
sion of  some  one  that  '  had  lost  somethin'  when  he  was  nobbut 
a  lad,  and  had  gone  seekin'  it  iver  sence.'  He  was  formidable 
to  me;  but  between  us  we  couldn't  keep  the  rest  of  the  party 
in  order,  so  when  the  orgie  had  gone  on  a  certain  time,  we  left 
it  and  went  out  into  the  air.  It  was  an  August  night.  I  remem- 
ber Leyburn  threw  back  his  head  and  drank  ifc  in.  'I  haven't 
breathed  this  air  for  five-and-twenty  years,'  he  said.  'I 
thought  I  hated  the  place,  and  in  spite  of  that  drunken  crew  in 
there,  it  draws  me  to  it  like  a  magnet.  I  feel,  after  all,  that  I 
have  the  fells  in  my  blood.'  He  was  a  curious  man,  a  refined 
looking  melancholy  creature,  with  a  face  that  reminded  you  of 
Wordsworth,  and  cold  donnish  ways,  except  to  his  children 
and  the  poor.  I  always  thought  his  Kfe  had  disappointed  hin 
somehow." 

*'Yet  one  would  think,"  said  Eobqj^t,  opening  his  eyes, 
that  he  had  made  a  very  considerable  success  of  it !" 
''Well,  I  don't  know  how  it  was,"  said  the  vicar,  whose 
analysis  of  character  never  went  very  far.      Anyhow,  next 
day  he  went  peering  about  the  place  and  the  mountains  and 


32  ROBERT  ELSMERE. 

the  lands  his  father  had  lost.  And  George,  the  eldest  brother, 
who  had  mherited  the  farm,  watched  him  without  a  word,  in 
the  way  these  Westmoreland  folk  have,  and  at  last  offered 
iiim  what  remained  of  the  place  for  a  fancy  price.  I  told  him 
it  was  a  preposterous  sum,  but  he  wouldn't  bargain.  '  I  shall 
bring  my  wife  and  children  here  in  the  hohdays,^  he  said, 
'  and  the  money  wHl  set  George  up  in  California.'  So  he  paid 
through  the  nose,  and  got  possession  of  the  old  house,  in  which, 
I  should  think,  he  had  passed  about  as  miserable  a  childhood 
as  it  was  possible  to  pass.    There's  no  accounting  for  tastes." 

''And  then  the  next  summer  they  all  came  down,"  inter- 
rupted Mrs.  Thornburgh.  She  dishked  a  long  story  as  she 
disUked  being  read  aloud  to.  ' '  Catherine  was  fifteen,  not  a  bit 
like  a  child.  You  used  to  see  her  everywhere  with  her  father. 
To  my  mind  he  was  always  exciting  her  brain  too  much,  but 
he  was  a  man  you  could  not  say  a  word  to.  I  don't  care  what 
Wmiam  says  about  his  being  like  Wordsworth;  he  just  gave 
you  the  blues  to  look  at." 

"It  was  so  strange,"  said  the  vicar,  meditatively,  "to  see 
them  in  that  house.  If  you  knew  the  things  that  used  to  go  on 
there  in  old  days-the  savages  that  lived  there.  And  then  to 
see  those  three  dehcately  brought-up  children  going  in  and  out 
of  the  parlor  where  old  Leyburn  used  to  sit  smoking  and  drink- 
ing- and  Dick  Leyburn  walking  about  in  a  white  tie,  and  the 
same  men  touching  their  hats  to  him  who  had  belabored  him 
when  he  was  a  boy  at  the  village  school-it  was  queer." 

"A  curious  little  bit  of  social  history,"  said  Eismere. 
'*  WeU,  and  then  he  died  and  the  family  lived  on  ?" 

"  Yes  he  died  the  year  after  he  bought  the  place.   And  per- 
haps the  most  interesting  thing  of  all  has  been  the  develop- 
ment of  his  eldest  daughter.    She  has  watched  over  her  mother, 
she  has  brought  up  her  sisters;  but  much  more  than  that:  she 
has  become  a  sort  of  Deborah  in  these  valleys,"  said  the  vicar, 
smiUng.    ' '  I  don't  count  for  much,  she  counts  for  a  great  deal. 
I  can't  get  the  people  to  teU  me  their  secrets,  she  can.    There  is 
a  sort  of  natural  sympathy  between  them  and  her.    She  nurses 
them,  she  scolds  them,  she  preaches  to  them,  and  they  take  it 
from  her  when  they  won't  take  it  from  us.    Perhaps  it  is  the 
feeling  of  blood.    Perhaps  they  think  it  as  mysterious  a  dis- 
pensation of  Providence  as  I  do  that  that  brutal,  swearing, 
whisky-drinking  stock  should  have  ended  in  anything  so 
saintly  and  so  beautiful  as  Catherine  Leyburn." 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


33 


The  quiet,  commonplace  clergj^man  spoke  with  a  sudden 
tremor  of  feeling.  His  wife,  however,  looked  at  him  with  a 
dissatisfied  expression. 

You  always  talk,"  she  said,  as  if  there  were  no  one  but 
Catherme.  People  generally  like  the  other  two  much  better 
Catherine  is  so  stand-off." 

^'Oh,  the  other  two  are  very  well,"  said  the  vicar,  but  in  a 
different  tone. 

Robert  sat  ruminating.    Presently  his  host  and  hostess  went 
m,  and  the  young  man  went  sauntering  up  the  climbing  garden- 
path  to  the  point  where  only  a  railing  divided  it  from  the  fell- 
side.    From  here  his  eye  commanded  the  whole  of  the  upper 
end  of  the  valley— a  bare,  desolate  recess  filled  with  evening 
shadow,  and  walled  round  by  masses  of  gray  and  purple  crag, 
except  in  one  spot,  where  a  green  intervening  fell  marked  the 
course  of  the  pass  connecting  the  dale  with  the  UUswater  dis- 
trict.  Below  him  were  church  and  parsonage:  beyond  the 
stone- filled  babbling  river,  edged  by  intensely  green  fields, 
which  melted  imperceptibly  into  the  browner  stretches  of  the 
opposite  mountain.    Most  of  the  scene,  except  where  the  hills 
at  the  end  rose  highest  and  shut  out  the  sun,  was  bathed  in 
quiet  light.    The  white  patches  on  the  farm-houses,  the  heck- 
berry  trees  along  the  river  and  the  road,  caught  and  empha- 
sized the  golden  rays  which  were  flooding  into  the  lower  valley 
as  into  a  broad  green  cup.    Close  by,  in  the  little  vicarage  or- 
chard, were  fruit  trees  in  blossom ;  the  air  was  mild  and  fra- 
grant, though  to  the  young  man  from  the  warmer  south  there 
was  still  a  bracing  quality  in  the  soft  western  breeze  which 
blew  about  him. 

He  stood  there  bathed  in  silent  enchantment,  an  eager  nature 
going  out  to  meet  and  absorb  into  itself  the  beauty  and  peace 
of  the  scene.  Lines  of  Wordsworth  were  on  his  lips;  the  little 
well-worn  volume  was  in  his  pocket,  but  he  did  not  need  to 
bring  it  out;  and  his  voice  had  aU  a  poet's  intensity  of  empha- 
sis as  he  strolled  along,  reciting  under  his  breaths 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free^ 
The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  nun 
Breathless  with  adoration !" 

Presently  his  eye  was  once  more  caught  by  the  roof  of  Bur- 
wood,  lying  beneath  him  on  its  promontory  of  land,  in  the 
quiet  shelter  of  its  protecting  trees.    He  stopped,  and  a 


34  ROBERT  ELSMEKE. 

cate  sense  of  harmonious  association  awoke  in  him.  That  girl 
atonmg  as  it  were  by  her  one  white  Ufe  for  all  the  crimes  and 
coarseness  of  her  ancestry,  the  idea  of  her  seemed  to  stea 
into  the  solemn  golden  evening  and  give  it  added  poetry  and 
meaning.  The.young  man  felt  a  sudden  strong  curiosity  to  see 
her. 

CHAPTER  III. 
THE  festal  tea  had  begun,  and  Mrs.  Thomburgh  was  presid- 
ing Opposite  to  her,  on  the  vicar's  left,  sat  the  formidable 
rector's  wife  Poor  Mrs.  Thornburgh  had  said  to  herself  as  she 
entered  the  room  on  the  arm  of  Mr.  Mayhew,  the  incumbent 
of  the  neighboring  valley  of  Shanmoor,  that  the  first  coup 
d^ceU  was  good.  The  flowers  had  been  arranged  m  the  after- 
noon by  Eose;  Sarah's  exertions  had  made  the  silver  shme 
again;  a  pleasing  odor  of  good  food  underlay  the  scent  of  the 
bluebdls  and  fern;  and  what  with  the  snowy  table-hnen,  ana 
the  pretty  dresses  and  bright  faces  of  the  younger  people,  the 
room  seemed  to  be  full  of  an  incessant  play  of  cnsp  and  delicate 
color 

But  just  as  the  vicar's  wife  was  sinking  into  her  seat  with  a 
Uttle  sigh  of  wearied  satisfaction,  she  caught  sight  suddenly  o. 
an  eyeglass  at  the  other  end  of  the  table  slowly  revolvmg  in  a 
large  and  jewelled  hand.   The  judicial  eye  behind  the  eyeglass 
travelled  round  the  table,  hngering,  as  it  seemed  to  Mrs.  Thorn- 
burgh's  excited  consciousness,  on  every  spot  where  cream  or 
ielly  or  meringue  should  have  been  and  was  not.   When  it 
dropped  with  a  harsh  little  click,  the  hostess,  unable  to  restrain 
herself,  rushed  into  desperate  conversation  with  Mr.  Mayhew, 
•  giving  vent  to  incoherencies  in  the  course  of  the  first  act  ot  the 
meal  which  did  but  confirm  her  neighbor-a  grim,  uncommu- 
nicative person-in  his  own  devotion  to  a  poUcy  of  silence. 
Meanwhile,  the  vicar  was  grappling  on  very  unequal  tenns 
with  Mrs.  Seaton.    Mrs.  Leyburn  had  faUen  to  young  Elsmere. 
Catherine  Leyburn  was  paired  off  with  Dr.  Baker,  Agnes  with 
Mr  Maybe w's  awkward  son— a  tongue-tied  youth,  lately  an 
unattached  student  at  Oxford,  but  now  relegated,  owing  to  an 
invincible  antipathy  to  Greek  verbs,  to  his  native  air,  till  some 
other  opening  into  the  great  world  should  be  discovered  for 

Rose  was  on  Robert  Elsmere's  right.    Agnes  had  coaxed  her 
into  a  white  dress  as  being  the  least  startling  garment  she  pos 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


35 


sessed,  and  she  was  like  a  Stothard  picture  with  her  high  waist, 
her  blue  sash  ribbon,  her  slender  neck  and  brilhant  head. 
She  had  already  cast  many  curious  glances  at  the  Thornburghs' 
guest.  ''Not  a  prig,  at  any  rate,"  she  thought  to  herself  with 
satisfaction,  "so  Agnes  is  quite  wrong." 

As  for  the  young  man,  who  was,  to  begin  with,  in  that  state 
which  so  often  follows  on  the  long  confinement  of  illness,  when 
the  light  seems  brighter  and  scents  keener  and  experience 
sharper  than  at  other  times,  he  was  inwardly  confessing  that 
Mrs.  Thornburgh  had  not  been  romancing.  The  vivid  creature 
at  his  elbow,  with  her  still  unsoftened  angles  and  movements, 
was  in  the  first  dawn  of  an  exceptional  beauty ;  the  plain  sister 
had  struck  him  before  supper  in  the  course  of  twenty  minutes' 
conversation  as  above  the  average  in  point  of  manners  and 
talk.  As  to  Miss  Leyburn,  he  had  so  far  only  exchanged  a  bow 
with  her,  but  he  was  watching  her  now,  as  he  sat  opposite  to 
her  out  of  his  quick,  observant  eyes. 

She,  too,  was  in  white.  As  she  turned  to  speak  to  the  youth 
at  her  side,  Elsmere  caught  the  fine  outline  of  the  head, 
the  unusually  clear  and  perfect  molding  of  the  brow,  nose,  and 
upper  lip.  The  hollows  in  the  cheek  struck  him,  and  the  w^ay 
in  which  the  breadth  of  the  forehead  somewhat  overbalanced 
the  delicacy  of  the  mouth  and  chin.  The  face,  though  still 
quite  young,  and  expressing  a  perfect  physical  health,  had  the 
look  of  having  been  polished  and  refined  away  to  its  founda- 
tions. There  was  not  an  ounce  of  superfluous  flesh  on  it,  and 
not  a  vestige  of  Rose's  peach- like  bloom.  Her  profile,  as  he 
saw  it  now,  had  the  firmness,  the  clear  whiteness,  of  a  profile 
on  a  Greek  gem. 

She  was  actually  making  that  silent,  awkward  lad  talk! 
Eobert,  who,  out  of  his  four  years'  experience  as  an  Oxford  tu- 
tor, had  an  abundant  compassion  for  and  understanding  of  such 
beings  as  young  Mayhew,  watched  her  with  a  pleased  amuse- 
ment, wondering  how  she  did  it.  What?  Had  she  got  him  on 
carpentering,  engineering— discovered  his  weak  point?  Water- 
wheels,  inventors,  steam-engines— and  the  lumpish  lad  aU  in  a 
glow,  talking  away  nineteen  to  the  dozen.  What  tact,  what 
kindness  in  her  gray  blue  eyes ! 

But  he  was  interrupted  by  Mrs.  Seaton,  who  was  perfectly 
well  aware  that  she  had  beside  her  a  stranger  of  some  prestige, 
an  Oxford  man,  and  a  member,  besides,  of  a  Well-known  Sussex 
county  family.   She  was  a  large  and  commanding  person,  clad 


36  EGBERT  ELSMBEK. 

in  black  moire  silk.  She  wore  a  velvet  diadem,  Honiton  lace 
lappets,  and  a  variety  of  chains,  beads,  and  bangles  bestrewn 
about  her  that  made  a  tinkling  as  she  moved.  Fixmg  her 
neighbor  with  a  bland  majesty  of  eye,  she  inquired  of  him  if  he 
were  "any  relation  of  Sir  Mowbray  Elsmere?''  Robert repUed 
that  Sir  Mowbray  Elsmere  was  his  father's  cousin,  and  the  pa- 
tron of  the  living  to  which  he  had  just  been  appointed.  Mrs. 
Seaton  then  graciously  informed  him  that  long  ago-"  when  1 
was  a  girl  in  my  native  Hampshire  "—her  family  and  Sir  Mow- 
bray Elsmere  had  been  on  intimate  terms.  Her  father  had 
been  devoted  to  Sir  Mowbray.  "  And  I,"  she  added,  with  an 
evident  though  lofty  desire  to  please,  "  retain  an  inherited  re- 
spect, sir,  for  your  name."  ,    ,    v  ^v, 

Robert  bowed,  but  it  was  not  clear  from  his  look  that  the 
rector's  wife  had  made  an  impression.  His  general  conception 
of  his  relative  and  patron,  Sir  Mowbray— who  had  been  for 
many  years  the  family  black  sheep-was,  indeed,  so  far  removed 
from  any  notions  of  "  respect,"  that  he  had  some  difficulty  in 
keeping  his  countenance  under  the  lady's  look  and  pose.  He 
would  have  been  still  more  entertained  had  he  known  the  nature 
of  the  intimacy  to  which  she  referred.  Mrs.  Seaton's  father,  m 
his  capacity  of  soUcitor  in  a  small  country  town,  had  acted  as 
electioneering  agent  for  Sir  Mowbray  (then  plain  Mr.)  Elsmere 
on  two  occasions-in  18-,  when  his  client  had  been  triumphant- 
ly returned  at  a  bye-election;  and  two  years  later,  when  a  repe- 
tition of  the  tactics,  so  successful  in  the  previous  contest,  led 
to  a  petition,  and  to  the  disappearance  of  the  heir  to  the  Els- 
mere property  from  parliamentary  hfe. 

Of  these  matters,  however,  he  was  ignorant,  and  Mrs.  Seaton 
did  not  enlighten  him.   Drawing  herself  up  a  Uttle,  and  pro- 
ceeding in  a  more  neutral  tone  than  before,  she  proceeded  to 
put  him  through  a  catechism  on  Oxford,  alternately  cross-ex- 
amining him  and  expounding  to  him  her  own  views  and  her 
husband's  on  the  functions  of  universities.    She  and  the  arch- 
deacon conceived  that  the  Oxford  authorities  were  mainly  occu 
pied  in  ruining  the  young  men's  health  by  overexamination,  ant. 
poisoning  their  minds  by  free-thinking  opinions.    In  her  behe^ 
if  it  went  on,  the  mothers  of  England  would  refuse  to  send  thei.- 
sons  to  these  ancient  but  deadly  resorts.   She  looked  at  him 
sternly  as  she  spoke,  as  though  defying  him  to  be  flippant  m 
return    And  he,  indeed,  did  his  polite  best  to  be  serious, 
■^ut  it  somewhat  disconcerted  him  in  the  middle  to  find  Miss 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


SI 


Leybum's  eyes  upon  him.  And  undeniably  there  was  a  spark 
of  laughter  in  them,  quenched,  as  soon  as  his  glance  crossed 
hers,  under  long  lashes.  How  that  spark  had  lighted  up  the 
grave,  pale  face !  He  longed  to  provoke  it  again,  to  cross  over 
to  her  and  say:  What  amused  you?  Do  you  think  me  very 
young  and  simple?   Tell  me  about  these  people." 

But,  instead,  he  made  friends  with  Eose.  Mrs.  Seaton  was 
soon  engaged  in  giving  the  vicar  advice  on  his  parochial  affairs, 
an  experience  which  generally  ended  by  the  appearance  of  cer- 
tain truculent  elements  in  one  of  the  mildest  of  men.  So  Eob- 
ert  was  free  to  turn  to  his  girl  neighbor  and  ask  her  what  peo- 
ple meant  by  calHng  the  Lakes  rainy. 

I  understand  it  is  pouring  at  Oxford.  To-day  your  sky  here 
has  been  without  a  cloud,  and  your  rivers  are  running  dry." 

"And  you  have  mastered  our  climate  in  twenty-four  hours, 
hke^he  tourists— isn't  it?— that  do  the  Irish  question  in  three 
weeks?" 

Not  the  answer  of  a  bread-and-butter  miss,"  he  thought  to 
himself,  amused,    and  yet  what  a  child  it  looks." 

He  threw  himself  into  a  war  of  words  with  her,  and  enjoyed  . 
it  extremely.  Her  brilHant  coloring,  her  gestures  as  fresh  and 
untamed  as  the  movements  of  the  leaping  river  outside,  the  mix- 
ture in  her  of  girhsh  pertness  and  ignorance,  with  the  promise 
of  a  remarkable  general  capacity,  made  her  a  most  taking,  pro- 
voking  creature.  Mrs.  Thornburgh— much  recovered  in  mind 
since  Dr.  Baker  had  praised  the  pancakes  by  which  Sarah  had 
sought  to  prove  to  her  mistress  the  superfluity  of  naughtiness 
involved  in  her  recourse  to  foreign  cooks— watched  the  young 
man  and  maiden  with  a  face  which  grew  more  and  more  radi- 
ant. The  conversation  in  the  garden  had  not  pleased  her. 
Why  should  people  always  talk  of  Catherine ;  Mrs.  Thornburgh 
stood  in  awe  of  Catherine,  and  had  given  her  up  in  despair.  It 
was  the  other  two  whose  fortunes,  as  possibly  directed  by  her, 
filled  her  maternal  heart  with  sympathetic  emotion, 

Suddenly  in  the  midst  of  her  satisfaction  she  had  a  rude  shock. 
What  on  earth  was  the  vicar  doing?  After  they  had  got  through 
better  than  any  one  could  have  hoped,  thanks  to  a  discreet 
silence  and  Sarah's  make-shifts,  there  was  the  master  of  the 
house  pouring  the  whole  tale  of  his  wife's  aspirations  and  dis- 
appointment into  Mrs.  Seaton's  ear!  If  it  were  ever  allowable 
to  rush  upon  your  husband  at  table  and  stop  his  mouth  with  a 
dinner  napkin,  Mrs.  Thornburgh  could  at  thi^  moment  have 


ROBEBT  ELSMERE. 


performed  such  a  feat.   She  nodded  and  coughed  and  fidgeted 

in  vain  1 

The  vicar's  confidences  were  the  result  of  a  fit  of  nervous  (ex- 
asperation. Mrs.  Seaton  had  just  embarked  upon  an  ax^count 
of  "our  charming  time  with  Lord  Fleckwoofl."  Now,  Lord 
Fleckwood  was  a  distant  cousin  of  Archdeacon  Seaton,  and  the 
gi-eat  magnate  of  the  neighborhood,  not,  however,  a  very  re- 
spectable magnate.  Mr.  Thornburgh  had  heard  accounts  of 
Lupton  Castle  from  Mrs.  Seaton  on  at  least  half  a  dozen  differ- 
ent occasions.  Privately  he  beheved  them  all  to  refer  to  one 
visit,  an  event  of  immemorial  antiquity  periodically  brought 
up  to  date  by  Mrs.  Seaton^s  imagination.  But  the  vicar  was  a 
timid  man,  without  the  courage  of  his  opinions,  and  in  his 
eagerness  to  stop  the  flow  of  his  neighbor  s  eloquence  he  could 
think  of  no  better  device,  or  more  suitable  lival  subject,  than 
to  plunge  into  the  story  of  the  drunken  carrier,  and  the  pastry 
still  reposing  on  the  counter  at  Eandall's. 

He  blushed,  good  man,  when  he  was  well  in  it.  His  wife's 
horrified  countenance  embarrassed  him.  But  anything  was 
better  than  Lord  Fleckwood.  Mrs.  Seaton  listened  to  him  with 
the  sKghtest  smfie  on  her  formidable  lip.  The  story  was  pleas- 
ing to  her. 

^' At  least,  my  dear  sir,"  she  said  when  he  paused,  noddmg 
her  diademed  head  with  stately  emphasis,  *^Mrs.  Thornburgh's 
inconvenience  may  have  one  good  result.  You  can  now  make 
an  example  of  the  carrier.  It  is  our  special  business,  as  my 
husband  always  says,  who  are  in  authority,  to  bring  their  low 
vices  home  to  these  people." 

The  vicar'  fidgeted  in  his  chair.  What  inaptitude  had  he 
been  guilty  of  now !  By  way  of  avoiding  Lord  Fleckwood  he 
might  have  started  Mrs"!  Seaton  on  teetotalism.  Now,  if  there 
was  one  topic  on  w^hich  this  awe-inspiring  woman  was  more 
awe-inspiring  than  another  it  was  on  the  topic  of  teetotalism. 
The  vicar  had  already  felt  himself  a  criminal  as  he  drank  his 
modest  glass  of  claret  under  her  eye. 

"Oh,  the  drunkenness  aboCit  here  is  pretty  bad,^  said  Dr. 
Baker,  from  the  other  end  of  the  table.  ' '  But  there  are  plenty 
of  worse  things  in  these  valleys.  Besides,  what  person  in  his 
senses  would  think  of  trying  to  disestabhsh  John  Backhouse? 
He  and  his  queer  brother  are  as  much  a  feature  of  the  valley  as 
High  Fell.  We  have  too  few  originals  left  to  be  so  very  par- 
ticular about  trifles." 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


39 


Trifles?''  repeated  Mrs.  Seaton,  in  a  deep  voice,  thiowing 
up  her  eyes.  But  she  would  not  venture  an  argument  with  Dr. 
Baker.  He  had  all  the  cheery  self-confidence  of  the  old  estab- 
lished local  doctor,  who  knows  himself  to  be  a  power,  and 
neither  Mrs.  Seaton  nor  her  restless,  intriguing  httle  husband 
had  ever  yet  succeeded  in  putting  him  down. 

You  must  see  these  two  old  charactei's,"  said  Dr.  Baker  to 
Elsmere  across  the  table.  ''They  are  relics  of  a  Westmoreland 
which  will  soon  have  disappeared.  Old  John,  who  is  going  on 
for  seventy,  is  as  tough  an  old  dalesman  as  ever  you  saw.  He 
doesn't  measure  his  cups,  but  he  would  scorn  to  be  floored  by 
them.  I  don't  believe  he  does  drink  much,  but  if  he  does  there 
is  pr/oably  no  amount  of  whisky  that  he  couldn't  carr3^  Jim, 
the  other  brother,  is  about  five  years  older.  He  is  a  kind  of 
softie — all  alive  on  one  side  of  his  brain,  and  a  noodle  on  the 
other.  A  single  glass  of  rum  and  water  puts  him  under  the 
table.  And  as  he  can  never  refuse  this  glass,  and  as  the  temp- 
tation generally  seizes  him  when  they  are  on  their  rounds,  he 
is  always  getting  John  into  disgi-ace.  John  swears  at  him  and 
slangs  him.  No  use.  Jim  sits  still,  looks— well,  nohow.  I 
never  saw  an  old  creature  with  a  more  singular  gift  of  denud- 
ing his  face  of  all  expression.  John  vows  he  shall  go  to  the 
'house;'  he  has  no  legal  share  in  the  business;  the  house  and 
the  horse  and  cart  are  John's.  Next  day  you  see  them  on  the 
cart  again  just  as  usual.  In  reality,  neither  brother  can  do 
without  the  other.  And  three  days  after,  the  play  begins  again." 

An  improving  spectacle  for  the  valley,"  said  Mrs.  Seaton, 
dryly. 

'*0h,  my  dear  madame,"  said  the  doctor,  shrugging  his 
shou.ders,  we  can't  all  be  so  virtuous.  If  old  Jim  is  a  drunk- 
ard, he  has  got  a  heart  of  his  own  somewhere,  and  can  nurse  a 
dying  niece  like  a  woman.  Miss  Leybum  can  tell  us  some- 
thing about  that." 

And  he  tm-ned  round  to  his  neighbor  with  a  complete, change 
of  expression,  and  a  voice  that  had  a  new  note  in  it  of  affection- 
ate respect.  Catharine  colored  as  if  she  did  not  like  being  ad- 
dressed on  the  subject,  and  just  nodded  a  little  with  gentle 
affirmative  eyes. 

''A  strange  case,"  said  Dr.  Baker,  again  looking  at  Elsmere. 
"It  is  a  family  that  is  original  and  old-world  even  in  its  ways 
of  dying.  I  have  been  a  doctor  in  these  parts  for  five-and- 
twenty  years.   I  have  seen  what  you  may  call  old  Westmore- 


40 


KOBERT  ELSMERE. 


land  die  out— costume,  dialect,  superstitions.  At  least,  as  to 
dialect,  the  people  have  become  bi-lingual.  I  sometimes  think 
they  talk  it  to  each  other  as  much  as  ever,  but  some  of  them 
won't  talk  it  to  you  and  me  at  all.  And  as  to  superstitions, 
rhe  only  ghost  story  I  kno'w  that  still  has  some  hold  on  popular 
belief  is  the  one  which  attaches  to  this  mountain  here.  High 
Fell,  at  the  end  of  this  valley." 

He  paused  a  moment.  A  salutary  sense  has  begun  to  pene- 
trate even  modern  provincial  society,  that  no  man  may  tell  a 
ghost  story  without  leave.  Rose  threw  a  merry  glance  at  him. 
They  two  were  very  old  friends.  Dr.  Baker  had  pulled  out 
her  first  teeth  and  given  her  a  sixpence  afterward  for  each 
operation.  The  pull  was  soon  forgotten;  the  sixpence  lived  on 
gratefully  in  a  child's  warm  memory. 

*^Tell  it,"  she  said;  **we  give  you  leave.  We  won't  inter- 
rupt you  unless  you  put  in  too  many  inventions." 

You  invite  me  to  break  the  first  law  of  story-telling.  Miss 
Rose,"  said  the  doctor,  lifting  a  finger  at  her.  "Everyman 
is  bound  to  leave  a  story  better  than  he  found  it.  However,  I 
couldn't  tell  it  if  I  would.  I  don't  know  what  makes  the  poor 
ghost  walk ;  and  if  you  do  I  shall  say  you  invent.  But  at  any 
rate  there  is  a  ghost,  and  she  walks  along  the  side  of  High  Fell 
at  midnight  every  Midsummer-day.  If  you  see  her  and  she 
passes  you  in  silence,  why  you  only  get  a  fright  for  your  pains. 
But  if  she  speaks  to  you,  you  die  within  the  year.  Old  John 
Backhouse  is  a  widower  with  one  daughter.  This  girl  saw  the 
ghost  last  Midsummer-day,  and  Miss  Ley  burn  and  I  are  now 
doing  our  best  to  keep  her  alive  over  the  next;  but  with  very 
small  prospect  of  success." 

"What  is  the  girl  dying  of— fright  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Seaton, 
harshly. 

"Oh,  no!"  said  the  doctor,  hastily,  "not  precisely.  A  sad 
story ;  better  not  inquire  into  it.  But  at  the  present  moment 
the  time  of  her  death  seems  likely  to  be  determined  by  the 
strengfh  of  her  own  and  other  people's  belief  in  tBe  ghost's 
summons. " 

Mrs.  Seaton's  grim  mouth  relaxed  into  an  ungenial  smile. 
She  put  up  her  eyeglass  and  looked  at  Catherine.  "An  un- 
pleasant household,  I  should  imagine,"  she  said,  shortly,  "for 
a  young  lady  to  visit. " 

Dr.  Baker  looked  at  the  rector's  wife,  and  a  kind  of  flame 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


41 


came  into  his  eyes.  He  and  Mrs.  Seaton  were  old  enemies,  and 
he  was  a  quick-tempered  mercurial  sort  of  man. 

**I  presume  that  one's  guardian  angel  may  have  to  follow 
one  sometimes  into  unpleasant  quarters,"  he  said,  hotly.  If 
this  girl  lives  it  will  be  Miss  Ley  burn's  doing;  if  she  dies,  saved 
and  comforted,  instead  of  lost  in  this  world  and  the  next, 
it  will  be  Miss  Leyburn's  doing,  too.  Ah,  my  dear  yotmg 
lady,  let  me  alone !  You  tie  my  tongue  always,  and  I  won't 
have  it." 

And  the  doctor  turned  his  weather-beaten  elderly  face  upon 
her  with  a  look  which  was  half  defiance  and  half  apology .  She, 
on  her  side,  had  flushed  painfully,  laying  her  white  finger-tips 
imploringly  on  his  arm.  Mrs.  Seaton  turned  away  with  a  little 
dry  cough,  so  did  her  spectacled  sister  at  the  other  end  of  the 
table.  Mrs.  Ley  burn,  on  the  other  hand,  sat  in  a  little  ecstasy, 
looking  at  Catherine  and  Dr.  Baker,  something  glistening  in 
her  eyes.  Robert  Elsmere  alone  showed  presence  of  mind. 
Bending  across  to  Dr.  Baker,  he  asked  him  a  sudden  question 
as  to  the  history  of  a  certain  strange  green  mound  or  barrow 
that  rose  out  of  a  flat  field  not  far  from  the  vicarage  windows. 
Dr.  Baker  grasped  his  whiskers,  threw  the  young  man  a  queer 
glance,  and  replied.  Thenceforward  he  and  Robert  kept  up  a 
lively  antiquarian  talk  on  the  traces  of  Norse  settlement  in  the 
Cumbrian  valleys,  which  lasted  till  the  ladies  left  the  dining- 
room. 

As  Catherine  Ley  bum  went  out,  Elsmere  stood  holding  the 
door  open.  She  could  not  help  raising  her  eyes  upon  him,  eyes 
full  of  a  half -timid,  half -grateful  friendliness.  His  own  re- 
turned her  look  with  interest. 

'  A  spirit,  but  a  woman,  too,' "  lie  thought  to  himself,  with 
a  new-born  thrill  of  sympathy,  as  he  went  back  to  his  seat. 
She  had  not  yet  said  a  direct  word  to  him,  and  yet  he  was 
curiously  convinced  that  here  was  one  of  the  most  interesting 
persons,  and  one  of  the  persons  most  interesting  to  him,  that 
he  had  ever  met.  What  mingled  delicacy  and  strength  in  the 
hand  that  had  lain  beside  heron  the  dinner-table— what  poten- 
tial depths  of  feeling  in  the  full,  dark-fringed  eye; 

Half  an  hour  later,  when  Elsmere  re-entered  the  drawing- 
room,  he  found  Catherine  Leybum  sitting  by  an  open  French 
window  that  looked  out  on  the  lawn  and  on  the  dim,  rocky 
face  of  the  fell.  Adeline  Baker,  a  stooping,  red-armed  maiden, 
with  a  pretty  face,  set  off,  as  she  imagined,  by  a  vast  amount 


42 


ROBERT  EI.SMERE. 


of  cheap  finery,  was  sitting  beside  her,  studying  her  with  a 
timid  adoration.  The  doctor's  daughter  regarded  Catherine 
Levburn,  who  dui*ing  the  last  five  years  had  made  herself 
almost  as  distinct  a  figure  in  the  popular  imagination  of  a  few 
Westmoreland  valleys  as  Sister  Dora  among  her  Walsall 
miners,  as  a  being  of  a  totally  different  order  from  herself.  She 
was  glued  to  the  side  of  her  idol,  but  her  shy  and  awkward 
tongue  could  find  hardly  anything  to  say  to  her.  Catherine, 
however,  talked  awiiy,  gently  stroking  the  whOe  the  girVs 
rough  hand  which  lay  on  her  knee,  to  the  mingled  pain  and 
bhss  of  its  owner,  w^ho  was  outraged  by  the  contrast  between 
her  own  ungainly  member  and  Miss  Leybum's  delicate  fingers 

Mrs.  Seaton  was  on  the  sofa  beside  Mrs.  Thorn  burgh,  amply 
avenging  hei-self  on  the  vicar's  wife  for  any  checks  she  might 
have  received  at  tea.  Miss  Barks,  her  sister,  an  old  maid  with 
a  face  that  seemed  to  be  perpetually  peering  forward,  fight 
colorless  hair  suiTOOunted  by  a  cap  adort.ed  with  artificial 
nasturtiums,  and  white-lashed  eyes,  aiTOed  with  spectacles, 
was  haviag  her  way  with  Mrs.  Leyburn,  inquiring  into  the 
household  arrangements  of  Burwood  with  a  cross-examining 
power  which  made  the  mild  widow  as  pulp  before  her. 

When  the  gentlemen  entered,  Mi^.  Thornburgh  looked 
round  hastily.  She  herself  had  opened  that  door  into  the  gar- 
den. A  garden  on  a  warm  summer  night  offers  opportunities 
no  schemer  should  neglect.  Agnes  and  Rose  were  chattering 
and  laughing  on  the  gravel  path  just  outside  it,  their  white 
girlish  figures  showing  temptingly  against  the  dusky  back- 
gi'ound  of  garden  and  fell.  It  somewhat  disappointed  the 
vicar's  wife  to  see  her  tall  guest  take  a  chair  and  draw  it  be- 
side Catherine— while  Adehne  Baker  awkwardly  got  up  and 
disappeared  into  the  garden. 

Elsmere  felt  it  an  unusually  interesting  momenv,  so  stroni 
bad  been  his  sense  of  attraction  at  tea;  but  Hka  the  rest  of  u  . 
he  could  find  nothing  more  telling  to  start  with  than  a  remark 
about  the  weather.  Catlierine,  in  her  reply,  asked  him  if  ho 
were  quite  recovered  from  the  attack  of  low  fever  he  was  un- 
derstood to  have  been  suffering  from. 

Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  brightly.  I  am  very  nearly  as  fit  as  I 
ever  was,  and  more  eager  than  I  ever  was  to  get  to  vvork.  Th^ 
idhng  of  it  is  the  worst  part  of  iUness.  However,  in  a  montlv 
from  now  I  must  be  at  my  living,  and  I  can  onlv  hope  it  wiK 
give  me  enough  to  do  " 


EGBERT  ELSMERE. 


43 


Catherine  looked  up  at  him  with  a  quick  impulse  of  liking. 
What  an  eager  face  it  was !  Eagerness,  indeed,  seemed  to  be 
the  note  of  the  whole  man,  of  the  quick  eyes  and  mouth,  the 
flexible  hands  and  energetic  movements.  Even  the  straight, 
stubbly  hair,  its  owner's  passing  torment,  standing  up  round 
the  high  open  brow,  seemed  to  help  the  general  impression  of 
alertness  and  vigor. 

Your  mother,  I  hear,  is  already  there  ?"  said  Catherine. 

"Yes.  My  poor  mother!"  and  the  young  man  smiled  half 
sadly.  It  is  a  curious  situation  for  both  of  us.  This  hving 
which  has  just  been  bestowed  on  me  is  my  father's  old  living. 
It  is  in  the  gift  of  my  cousin,  Sir  Mowbray  Elsmere.  My  great- 
uncle"— he  drew  himself  together  suddenly.  ''But  I  don't 
know  why  I  should  imagine  that  these  things  interest  other 
people,"  he  said,  with  a  little  quick,  almost  comical,  accent  of 
self-rebuke. 

''Please  go  on,"  cried  Catherine,  hastily.  The  voice  and 
manner  were  singularly  pleasant  to  her;  she  wished  he  would 
not  interrupt  himself  for  nothing. 

'^Eeally?  Well,  then,  my  great-uncle,  old  Sir  William, 
wished  me  to  have  it  when  I  grew  up.  I  was  against  it  for  a 
long  time,  took  Orders;  but  I  wanted  something  more  stirring 
than  a  country  parish.  One  has  dreams  of  many  things.  But 
one's  dreams  come  to  nothing.  I  got  ill  at  Oxford.  The  doc- 
tor forbade  the  town  work.  The  old  incumbent  who  had  held 
the  living  since  my  father's  death  died  precisely  at  that  mo- 
ment. I  felt  myself  booked,  and  gave  in  to  various  friends; 
but  it  is  second  best." 

She  felt  a  certain  soreness  and  discomfort  in  his  tone,  as 
though  his  talk  represented  a  good  deal  of  mental  struggle  in 
the  past. 

"But  the  country  is  not  idleness,"  she  said,  smiling  at  him. 
Her  cheek  was  leaning  lightly  on  her  hand,  her  eyes  had  an 
unusual  animation;  and  her  long  white  dress,  guiltless  of  any 
ornament  save  a  small  old-fashioned  locket  hanging  from  a 
thin  old  chain  and  a  pair  of  hair  bracelets  with  engraved  gold 
clasps,  gave  her  the  nobleness  and  simplicity  of  a  Eomney 
picture. 

"  You  do  not  find  it  so,  I  imagine,"  he  repUed,  bending  for- 
ward to  her,  with  a  charming  gesture  of  homage.  He  would 
have  liked  her  to  talk  to  him  of  her  work  and  her  interests. 
He,  too,  mentally  compared  her  to  ^int  Elizabeth.   He  could 


EGBERT  ELSMERE. 


almost  have  fancied  the  dark  red  flowers  in  her  white  lap.  But 
his  comparison  had  another  basis  of  feeling  than  Rose's. 

However,  she  would  not  talk  to  him  of  herself.  The  way  in 
which  she  turned  the  conversation  brought  home  to  his  own 
expansive  confiding  nature  a  certain  austerity  and  stiffness  of 
fiber  in  her  which  for  the  moment  chilled  him.  But  as  he  got 
her  into  talk  about  the  neighborhood,  the  people  and  their 
ways,  the  impression  vanished  again^  so  far  at  least  as  there 
was  anything  repellent  about  it.  Austerity,  strength,  individ- 
uality, all  these  words  indeed  he  was  more  and  more  driven  to 
apply  to  her.  She  was  hke  no  other  woman  he  had  ever  seen. 
It  was  not  at  all  that  she  was  more  remarkable  intellectually. 
Every  now  and  then,  indeed,  as  their  talk  flowed  on,  he  noticed 
in  what  she  said  an  absence  of  a  good  many  interests  and  attain- 
ments which  in  his  ordinary  south-country  women  friends  he 
would  have  assumed  as  a  matter  of  course. 

"I  understand  French  very  httle,  and  I  never  read  any," 
she  said  to  him  once,  quietly,  as  he  Ml  to  comparing  some 
peasant  story  she  had  told  him  with  an  episode  in  one  of 
George  Sand's  Berry  novels.  It  seemed  to  him  that  she  knew 
her  Wordsworth  by  heart.  And  her  own  mountain  hfe,  her 
own  rich  and  meditative  soul,  had  taught  her  judgments  and 
comments  on  her  favorite  poet  which  stirred  Elsmere  every 
now  and  then  to  enthusiasm— so  true  they  were  and  pregnant, 
so  full  often  of  a  natural  magic  of  expression.  On  the  other 
hand,  when  he  quoted  a  very  well-known  fine  of  Shelley's  she 
asked  him  where  it  came  from.  She  seemed  to  him  deeper  and 
simpler  at  every  moment ;  her  very  hmitations  of  sympathy 
and  knowledge,  and  they  were  evidently  many,  began  to 
attract  him.  The  thought  of  her  ancestry  crossed  him  now 
then,  rousing  in  him  now  wonder,  and  now  a  strange  sense  of 
congruity  and  harmony.  Clearly  she  was  the  daughter  of  a 
primitive  unexhausted  race.  And  yet  what  purity,  what  re- 
finement, what  delicate  perception  and  self-restraint! 

Presently  they  fell  on  the  subject  of  Oxford. 
Were  you  ever  there  ?"  he  asked  her. 

*'Once,"  she  said.  "I  went  with  my  father  one  summer 
term.  I  have  only  a  confused  memory  of  it— of  the  quad- 
rangles, and  a  long  street,  a  great  building  with  a  dome,  and 
such  beautiful  trees !" 

Did  your  father  often  go  back  ?  ' 

'*Noi  never  toward  the  latter  part  of  his  life"— and  Iwv 


KOBBRT  ELSMERE.  45 

clear  eyes  clouded  a  little;  "nothing  made  him  so  sad  as  the 
thought  of  Oxford."  . 

She  paused,  as  though  she  had  strayed  on  to  a  topic  where 
expression  was  a  little  difficult.  Then  his  face  and  clerical 
dress  seemed  somehow  to  reassure  her,  and  she  began  again, 
though  reluctantly. 

"  He  used  to  say  that  it  was  all  so  changed.  The  young  fel- 
lows he  saw  when  he  went  back  scorned  everything  he  cared 
for  Every  visit  to  Oxford  was  Uke  a  stab  to  him.  It  seemed 
to  him  as  if  the  place  was  fuU  of  men  who  only  wanted  to  de- 
stroy and  break  down  everything  that  was  sacred  to  him 

Elsmere  reflected  tkat  Kichard  Leyburn  must  have  left  Ox- 
ford about  the  beginning  of  the  Liberal  reaction  which  fol- 
lowed Tractarianism,  and  in  twenty  years  transformed  the 

^"^.^^'^he  said,  smiUng  gently.  "He  should  have  lived  a 
little  longer.  There  is  another  turn  of  the  tide  since  then. 
The  destructive  wave  has  spent  itself,  and  at  Oxford  now  many 
of  us  feel  ourselves  on  the  upward  sweU  of  a  religious  revival 
■  Catherine  looked  up  at  him  with  a  sweet  sympathetic  look. 
That  dim  vision  of  Oxford,  with  its  gray,  tree-lined  walls  lay 
very  near  to  her  heart  for  her  father's  sake.  And  the  keen 
face  above  her  seemed  to  satisfy  and  respond  to  her  mner  teel- 

™"  I  know  the  High  Church  influence  is  very  strong,"  she  said 
hesitating;  "  but  I  don't  know  whether  father  would  have  liked 

that  much  better."  ,  , 

The  last  words  had  sUpped  out  of  her,  and  she  checked  her- 
self suddenly.  Eobert  saw  that  she  was  uncertam  as  to  his 
opinions,  and  afraid  lest  she  might  have  said  something  dis- 

''"'itTnot  only  the  High  Church  influence,"  he  said  quickly 
"it  is  a  mixture^f  influences  from  all  sorts  of  quarters  that 
has  brought  about  the  new  state  of^thmgs.  Some  of  the  tac- 
in  thfchange  were  hardly  Chriltians  at  aU  nam^^^^^^ 
they  have  all  helped  to  make  men  think,  to  stir  then-  hearts,  to 
win  them  back  to  the  old  ways." 

His  voice  had  tal^en  to  itself  a  singular  magnetism.  Evi 
dently  the  matters  they  were  discussing  ^^^e  matters  m  which 
he  felt  a  deep  and  loving  interest.   His  young  ^^y^  J  f 
grown  grave;  there  was  a  striking  dignity  and  weight  in  his 
Lk  and  manner,  which  suddenly  roused  m  Catherine  the 


BOBEBT  ELSMEBE. 


sense  that  she  was  speaking  to  a  man  of  distinction,  accustomed 
to  deal  on  equal  terms  with  the  large  things  of  life  She  rS 
her  eyes  o  him  for  a  moment,  and  he  saw  in  them  a  beautiM 
mystical  Iight-responsive,  lofty,  full  of  soul  ""^^'^^tul, 
The  next  moment,  it  apparently  struck  her  sharply  that  their 
conversation  was  becoming  incongruous  with  its  surrouSr 
Behind  them  Mrs.  Thornburgh  was  busthng  about  witTcanX 
and  music-stools,  preparing  for  a  performance  on  the  flute  by 
Mr.  Mayhew.  the  black-browed  vicar  of  Shanmoor  a  d  the 
room  seemed  to  be  pervaded  by  Mrs.  Seaton's  stSnt  tice 
Her  strong  natural  reserve  asserted  itself,  and  her  face  slttled 

SWos?'  T^''^  characteSc  S 

She  rose  and  prepared  to  move  further  into  the  room 

Wemusthsten,"shesaid  tohim,  smiling,  over  her  shoulder 

burn    He  had  a  momentary  sense  of  rebuff.   The  man  quick 
sensitive,  sympathetic,  felt  in  the  woman  the  presence  of  a 
strength  a  self-sufficingness  which  was  not  all  atlactiVe  His 
vanity,  if  he  had  cherished  any  during  their  convei^f il^' 
not  flattered  by  its  close.   Bu^t  as  he  Wd  agS*  h^'^ 
dow-frame  waiting  for  the  music  to  begin,  he^oSd  haX 
keep  his  eyes  from  her.    He  wa«  a  man  4o  by  force  of  tern 
perament,  made  friends  readily  with  women,  ^oS  except 
tor  a  passing  fancy  or  two  he  had  never  beer  in  wf     f  3 
sense  of  difficulty  with  regard  to  Sl^^^^^^ 

Miss  Barks  seated  herself  deliberately,  after  much  fiddling 

oXTaisS  JCfi "'^'^  '™  *^  ^^-^^      flute%nd  ne^^: 
ousJy  praised  the  fierce  igusic  he  made  on  it.   Miss  Barks  en 

joyed  amonopoly  of  his  accompaniments,  and  iherTw^  4nv 

er^namtt  d      'T'^'^IJ  ^  "  "P-  Sw"! 

w^-fh  oTh    .  I  ^*       OreekmeofcingGreek  for 

-Has  it  begun  ?"  said  a  hurried  whisper  at  Elsmere's  elbow 
and  turnmg  he  saw  Rose  and  Agnes  on  the  step  of  the  ^ndow,' 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


Rose's  cheek  flushed  by  the  night  breeze,  a  shawl  thrown 
lightly  round  her  head. 

She  was  answered  by  the  first  notes  of  the  flute,  following 
some  powerful  chords  in  which  Miss  Barks  had  tested  at  once 
the  strength  of  her  wrists  and  the  vicarage  piano. 

The  girl  made  a  little  moue  of  disgust,  and  turned  as  though 
to  fly  down  the  steps  again.  But  Agnes  caught  her  and  held 
her,  and  the  mutinous  creature  had  to  submit  to  be  drawn  in- 
side while  Mrs.  Thornburgh,  in  obedience  to  complaints  of 
draughts  from  Mrs.  Seaton,  motioned  to  have  the  window  shut. 
Eose  estabhshed  herself  against  the  wall,  her  curly  head  thrown 
back,  her  eyes  half  shut,  her  mouth  expressing  an  angry  en- 
durance.   Eobert  watched  her  with  amusement. 

It  was  certainly  a  remarkable  duet.  After  an  adagio  open- 
ing in  which  flute  and  piano  were  at  magnificent  cross  pur- 
poses from  the  beginning,  the  two  instruments  plunged  into  an 
allegro  very  long.,and  very  fast,  which  became  ultimately  a 
desperate  race  between  the  competing  performers  for  the  final 
chord.  Mr.  Mayhew  toiled  away,  taxing  the  resources  of  his 
whole  vast  frame  to  keep  his  small  instrument  in  a  line  with 
the  piano,  and  taxing  them  in  vain.  For  the  shriller  and  the 
wilder  grew  the  flute,  and  the  greater  the  exertion  of  the  dark 
Hercules  performing  on  it,  the  fiercer  grew  the  pace  of  the 
piano.   Eose  stamped  her  little  foot. 

''Two  bars  ahead  last  page,"  she  murmured,  three  bars 
this :  will  no  one  stop  her !" 

But  the  pages  fiew.past,  turned  assiduously  by  Agnes,  who 
took  a  sardonic  delight  in  these  performances,  and  every 
countenance  in  the  room  seemed  to  take.a  look  of  sharpened 
anxiety  as  to  how  the  duet  was  to  end,  and  who  was  to  be  victor. 

Nobody  knowing  Miss  Barks  need  to  have  been  in  any  doubt 
afe  to  that !  Crash,  came  the  last  chord,  and  the  poor  flute, 
nearly  half  a  page  behind,  was  left  shriUy  hanging  in  midair^ 
forsaken  and  companionless,  an  object  of  derision  to  gods  and 
men. 

"Ah!  I  took  it  a  little  fast!"  said  the  lady,  triumphantly 
looking  up  at  the  discomfited  clergyman. 

"Mr.  Elsmere,"  said  Eose,  hiding  herself  in  fhe  window- 
curtain  beside  him,  that  she  might  have  her  laugh  in  safety. 
"Do  they  play  like  that  in  Oxford,  or  has  Long  Whindale  a 
monopoly  ?" 


48 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


But  before  he  could  answer,  Mrs.  Thornburgh  called  to  the 
girl: 

Rose !   Rose !   Don't  go  out  again !   It  is  your  turn  next !" 

Rose  advanced  reluctantly,  her  head  in  air.  Robert,  remem- 
bering something  that  Mrs.  Thornburgh  had  said  to  him  as  to 
her  musical  power,  supposed  that  she  felt  it  an  indignity  to  be 
asked  to  play  in  such  company. 

Mrs.  Thornburgh  motioned  to  him  to  come  and  sit  by  Mrs. 
Leyburn,  a  summons  which  he  obeyed  v/ith  the  more  alacrity, 
as  it  brought  him  once  more  within  reach  of  Mrs.  Leyburn 'a 
eldest  daughter. 

Are  you  fond  of  music,  Mr.  Elsmere  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Leyburn 
in  her  little  mincing  voice,  making  room  for  his  chair  beside 
them.  **If  you  are,  I  am  sure  my  youngest  daughter's  play- 
ing will  please  you." 

Catherine  moved  abruptly.  Robert,  while  he  made  some 
pleasant  answer,  divined  that  the  reserved  ^d  stately  daughter 
must  be  often  troubled  by  the  mother's  expansiveness. 

Meanwhile  the  room  was  again  settling  itself  to  listen.  Mrs. 
Seaton  was  severely  turning  over  a  photograph  book.  In  her 
opinion  the  violin  was  an  unbecoming  instrument  for  young 
women.  Miss  Barks  sat  upright  with  the  studiously  neutral 
expression  which  befits  the  artist  asked  to  listen  to  a  rival.  Mr. 
Thornburgh  sat  pensive,  one  foot  drooped  over  the  other.  He 
was  very  fond  of  the  Leyburn  girls,  but  music  seemed  to  him, 
good  man,  one  of  the  least  comprehensible  of  human  pleasures. 
As  for  Rose,  she  had  at  last  arranged  .herself  and  her  accom- 
panist Agnes,  after  routing  out  from  her  music  a  couple  of 
Fantasie  Stuckey  wjiich  she  had  wickedly  chosen  as  presenting 
the  most  severely  classical  contrast  to  the  '  *  rubbish"  played  by 
the  preceding  performers.  She  stood  with  her  lithe  figure  in 
its  old-fashioned  dress  thrown  out  against  the  black  coats  of  a 
group  of  gentlemen  beyond,  one  slim  arched  foot  advanced, 
the  ends  of  the  blue  sash  dangling,  the  hand  and  arm,  beauti- 
fully formed,  but  stiU  wanting  the  roundness  of  womanhood, 
raised  high  for  action,  the  lightly  poised  head  thrown  back 
with  an  air.  Robert  thought  her  a  bewitching,  half-grown 
thing,  overflowing  with  potentialities  of  future  brilliance  and 
empire. 

Her  music  astonished  him.  Where  had  a  Little  provincial 
maiden  learned  to  play  with  this  intelligence,  this  force,  this 
delicate  command  of  her  instrument  ?  He  was  not  a  musician. 


ROBEFvT  ELSMEEE. 


and  therefore  could  not  gauge  her  exactly,  but  he  was  more  or 
less  familiar  with  music  and  its  standards,  as  all  people  become 
nowadays  who  live  in  a  highly  cultivated  society,  and  he  knew 
enough  at  any  rate  to  see  that  what  he  was  hstening  to  was  re- 
markable, was  out  of  the  common  range.  Still  more  evident 
was  this,  when  from  the  humorous  piece  with  which  the  sisters 
led  oif — a  dance  of  clowns,  but  clowns  of  Arcady— they  slid 
into  a  delicate  rippling  chant  d'amour,  the  long-drawn  notes  of 
the  violin  rising  and  falling  on  the  piano  accompaniment  with 
an  exquisite  plaintiveness.  Where  did  a  filette,  unformed,  in- 
experienced, win  the  secret  of  so  much  eloquence— only  from 
the  natural  dreams  of  a  girPs  heart  as  to  the  lovers  waiting 
in  the  hidden  years  ?" 

But  when  the  music  ceased,  Elsmere,  after  a  hearty  clap  that 
set  the  room  applauding  Hkewise,  turned  not  to  the  musician 
but  the  figure  beside  Mrs.  Leybum,  the  sister  who  had  sat 
listening  with  an  impassiveness,  a  sort  of  gentle  remoteness  of 
look,  which  had  piqued  his  curiosity.  The  mother  meanwhile 
was  drinking  in  the  comphments  of  Dr.  Baker. 

Excellent !"  cried  Elsmere.  How  in  the  name  of  fortune. 
Miss  Leybum,  if  I  may  ask,  has  your  sister  managed  to  get  on 
so  far  in  this  remote  place  V 

''She  goes  to  Manchester  every  year  to  some  relations  we 
have  there,"  said  Catherine,  quietly;  "  I  beheve  ^he  has  been 
very  well  taught." 

"  But  surely,"  he  said,  warmly,  ''  it  is  more  than  teaching— 
more  even  than  talent— there  is  something  like  genius  in  it." 

She  did  not  answer  very  readily. 

''I  don't  know,"  she  said  at  last.  Every  one  says  it  is  very 
good." 

He  would  have  been  repelled  by  her  irresponsiveness  but  that 
her  last  words  had  in  them  a  note  of  lingering,  of  wistfulness, 
as  though  the  subject  were  connected  with  an  inner  debate  not 
yet  solved  which  troubled  her.  He  was  puzzled,  but  certainly 
not  repelled. 

Twenty  minutes  later  everybody  was  going.  The  Seatons 
went  first,  and  the  other  guests  lingered  awhile  afterward  to 
enjoy  the  sense  of  freedom  left  by  their  departure.  But  at  last 
the  Mayhews,  father  and  son,  set  off  on  foot  to  walk  home  over 
the  moonlighted  mountains ;  the  doctor  tucked  himself  and  his 
daughter  into  his  high  gig,  and  drove  off  with  a  sweeping, 
ironical  bow  to  Eose,  who  had  stood  on  the  steps  teasing  him 


50 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


to  the  last ;  and  Robert  Elsmere  offered  to  escort  the  Misses 
Leyburn  and  their  mother  home. 

Mrs.  Thornburgh  was  left  protesting  to  the  vicar's  incredu- 
lous ears  that  never— never  as  long  as  she  lived— would  she 
have  Mrs.  Seaton  mside  her  doors  again. 

''Her  manners' —cried  the  vicars  wife,  fuming— ''her  man- 
ners would  disgrace  a  Whinborough  shop-girl.  She  has  none 
— positively  none !" 

Then  suddenly  her  round  comfortable  face  brightened  and 
broadened  out  into  a  beaming  smQe: 

''But,  after  all,  Wilham,  say  what  you  wiU— and  you  always 
do  say  the  most  unpleasant  things  you  can  thmk  of —it  was  a 
great  success.  I  know  the  Leyburns  enjoyed  it.  And  bs  for 
Robert,  I  saw  him  looking— looking  at  that  Uttle  minx  Rose 
while  she  was  playing  as  if  he  couldn't  take  liis  eyes  off  her. 
What  a  picture  she  made,  to  be  sure !" 

The  vicar,  who  had  been  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire- 
place and  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  received  his  wife's  remarks 
first  of  aU  with  lifted  eyebrows,  and  then  with  a  low  chuckle, 
half  scornful,  half  compassionate,  which  made  her  start  in  her 
chair. 

''Rose?"  he  said,  impatiently.  "Rose,  my  dear,  where  were 
your  eyes?" 

It  was  very  rarely  indeed  that  on  her  own  ground,  so  to 
speak,  the  vicar  ventured  to  take  the  whip  hand  of  her  like 
this.    Mrs.  Thornburgh  looked  at  him  in  amazement. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  he  asked,  in  raised  tones,  "  that  you 
didn't  notice  that  from  the  moment  you  first  introduced 
Robert  to  Catherine  Leyburn,  he  had  practically  no  attention 
for  anybody  else?" 

Mrs.  Thornburgh  gazed  at  him— her  memory  flew  back  over 
the  evening— and  her  impulsive  contradiction  died  on  her  lips. 
It  was  now  her  turn  to  ejaculate: 

"  Catherine?"  she  said,  feebly.    "Catherine?  how  absurd!" 

But  she  turned,  and,  with  quickened  breath,  looked  out  of  the 
window  after  the  retreating  figures.  Mrs.  Thornburgh  went 
up  to  bed  that  night  an  inch  taller.  She  had  never  felt  herself 
more  exquisitely  indispensable,  more  of  a  personage* 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


51 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Before,  however,  we  go  on  to  chronicle  the  ultimate  success 
or  failure  of  Mrs.  Thornburgh  as  a  match-maker,  it  may  be 
well  to  inquire  a  little  more  closely  into  the  antecedents  of 
the  man  who  had  suddenly  roused  so  much  activity  in  her  con- 
triving mind.  And,  indeed,  these  antecedents  are  important 
to  us.  For  the  interest  of  an  uncomplicated  story  will  entire- 
ly depend  upon  the  clearness  with  which  the  reader  may  have 
grasped  the  general  outlines  of  a  quick  soul's  development. 
And  this  development  had  already  made  considerable  progress 
before  Mrs.  Thornburgh  set  eyes  upon  her  husband's  cousin, 
Robert  Elsmere. 

Robert  Elsmere,  then,  was  well  born  and  fairly  well  provided 
with  this  world's  goods ;  up  to  a  certain  moderate  point,  indeed, 
a  favorite  of  fortune  in  all  respects.  His  father  belonged  to 
the  younger  line  of  an  old  Sussex  family,  and  owed  his  pleas- 
ant country  living  to  the  family  instincts  of  his  uncle.  Sir 
William  Elsmere,  in  whom  Whig  doctrines  and  Conservative 
traditions  were  pretty  evenly  mixed,  with  a  result  of  the  usual 
respectable  and  inconspicuous  kind.  His  virtues  had  descended 
mostly  to  his  daughters,  while  all  his  various  weaknesses  and 
fatuities  had  blossomed  into  vices  in  the  person  of  his  eldest 
son  and  heir,  the  Sir  Mowbray  Elsmere  of  Mrs.  Seaton's  early 
recollections. 

Edward  Elsmere,  rector  of  Murewell  in  Surrey,  and  father  of 
Robert,  had  died  before  his  uncle  and  patron ;  and  his  widow 
and  son  had  been  left  to  face  the  world  together.  Sir  William 
Elsmere  and  his  nephew's  wife  had  not  much  in  common,  and 
rarely  concerned  themselves  with  each  other.  Mrs.  Elsmere 
was  an  Irish  woman  by  birth,  with  irregular  Irish  ways,  and  a 
passion  for  strange  garments,  which  made  her  the  dread  of  the 
conventional  English  squire ;  and,  after  she  left  the  vicarage 
with  her  son,  she  and  her  husband's  uncle  met  no  more.  But 
when  he  died  it  was  found  that  the  old  man's  sense  of  kinship, 
acting  blindly  and  irrationally,  but  with  a  slow  inevitableness 
and  certainty,  had  stirred  in  him  at  the  last  in  behalf  of  his 
greatnephew.  He  left  him  a  money  legacy,  the  interest  of 
which  was  to  be  administered  by  his  mother  till  his  majority, 
and  in  a  letter  addressed  to  his  heir  he  directed  that,  should  the 
boy  on  attainini^  manhood  ghow  any  disposition  to  enter  the 


OF  ILL  LIB. 


52 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


Church,  all  possible  steps  were  to  be  taken  to  endow  him  with 
the  family  living  of  Murewell,  which  had  been  his  father's, 
and  which  at  the  time  of  the  old  baronet's  death  was  occupied 
by  another  connection  of  the  family,  already  well  stricken  in 
years. 

Mowbray  Elsmere  had  been  hardly  on  speaking  terms  with 
his  cousin  Edward,  and  was  neither  amiable  nor  generous,  but 
his  father  knew  that  the  tenacious  Elsmere  instinct  was  to  be 
depended  on  for  the  fulfilhnent  of  his  wishes.  And  so  it  proved. 
No  sooner  was  his  father  dead  than  Sir  Mowbray  curtly  com- 
municated his  instructions  to  Mrs.  Elsmere,  then  hving  at  the 
town  of  Harden  for  the  sake  of  the  great  public  school  recently 
transported  there.  She  was  to  inform  him,  when  the  right 
moment  arrived,  if  it  was  the  boy's  wish  to  enter  the  Church, 
and  meanwhile  he  referred  her  to  his  lawyers  for  particulars 
of  such  immediate  benefits  as  were  secured  to  her  under  the 
late  baronet's  will. 

At  the  moment  when  Sir  Mowbray's  letter  reached  her,  Mrs. 
Elsmere  was  playing  a  leading  part  in  the  small  society  to 
which  circumstances  had  consigned  her.  She  was  the  personal 
friend  of  half  the  masters  and  their  wives,  and  of  at  least  a 
quarter  of  the  school,  while  in  the  Httle  town  which  stretched 
up  the  hill  covered  by  the  new  school  buildings,  she  was  the 
helper,  gossip,  and  confidante  of  half  the  parish.  Her  vast  hats, 
strange  in  fashion  and  inordinate  in  brim,  her  shawls  of  many 
colors,  hitched  now  to  this  side  now  to  that,  her  swaying  gait 
and  looped-up  skirts,  her  spectacles,  and  the  dangling  parcels 
in  which  her  soul  dehghted,  were  the  outward  signs  of  a  per- 
sonality familiar  to  all.  For  under  those  checked  shawls,  which 
few  women  passed  without  an  inward  marvel,  there  beat  one 
of  the  warmest  hearts  that  ever  animated  mortal  clay,  and  the 
prematurely  wrinkled  face,  with  its  small,  quick  eyes  and 
shrewd,  indulgent  mouth,  bespoke  a  nature  as  responsive  as  it 
was  vigorous. 

Their  owner  was  constantly  in  the  public  eye.  Her  house, 
during  the  hours  at  any  rate  in  which  her  boy  was  at  school, 
was  little  else  than  a  halting-place  between  two  journeys.  Vis- 
its to  the  poor,  long  watches  by  the  sick;  committees,  in  which 
her  racy  breadth  of  character  gave  her  always  an  important 
place;  discussions  with  the  vicar,  arguments  with  the  curates, 
a  chat  with  this  person  and  a  walk  with  that— these  were  the 
incidents  and  occupations  which  filled  her  day.   Life  was  de- 


ROBERT  ELSMERB. 


53 


Kghtfulto  her;  action,  energy,  influence,  were  delightful  to  her; 
she  could  only  breathe  freely  in  the  very  thick  of  the  stir- 
ring, many-colored  tumult  of  existence.  Whether  it  was  a 
pauper  in  the  work-house,  or  boys  from  the  school,  or  a  girl 
<3aught  in  the  tangle  of  a  love  aifair,  it  was  all  the  same  to  Mrs. 
Elsmere.  Everything  moved  her,  everything  appealed  to  her. 
Her  life  was  a  perpetual  giving  forth,  and  such  was  the  inher- 
ent nobility  and  soundness  of  the  nature,  that  in  spite  of  her 
curious  Irish  fondness  for  the  vehement  romantic  sides  of  ex- 
perience, she  did  little  harm  and  much  good.  Her  tongue 
might  be  overready  and  her  championships  indiscreet,  but  her 
hands  were  helpful  and  her  heart  was  true.  There  was  some- 
thing contagious  in  her  enjoyment  of  Hfe,  and  with  all  her 
strong  religious  faith,  the  thought  of  death,  of  any  final  pause 
and  silence  in  the  whir  of  the  great  social  machine,  was  to  her 
a  thought  of  greater  chill  and  horror  than  to  many  a  less  brave 
and  spiritual  soul. 

Till  her  boy  was  twelve  years  old,  however,  she  had  lived  for 
him  first  and  foremost.  She  had  taught  him,  played  with  him, 
learned  with  him,  commimicating  to  him  through  all  his  les- 
sons her  own  fire  and  eagerness  to  a  degree  which  every  now 
and  then  taxed  the  physical  powers  of  the  child.  Whenever 
the  signs  of  strain  appeared,  however,  the  mother  would  be 
overtaken  by  a  fit  of  repentant  watchfulness,  and  for  days  to- 
gether Eobert  would  find  her  the  most  fascinating  playmate, 
story-teller,  and  romp,  and  forget  all  his  precocious  interest  in 
history  or  vulgar  fractions.  In  ^fter  y  ears  when  Eobert  looked 
back  upon  his  childhood,  he  was  often  reminded  of  the  stories 
of  Goethe's  bringing-up.  He  could  recall  exactly  the  same 
scenes  as  Goethe  describes — mother  and  child  sitting  together 
in  the  gloaming,  the  mother's  dark  eyes  dancing  with  fun  or 
kindling  with  dramatic  fire,  as  she  carried  an  imaginary  hero 
or  heroine  through  a  series  of  the  raciest  ad  ventures ;  the  child 
all  eagerness  and  sympathy,  now  clapping  his  little  hands  at 
the  fall  of  the  giant,  or  the  defeat  of  the  sorcerer,  and  now 
arguing  and  suggesting  in  ways  which  gave  perpetually  fresh 
stimulus  to  the  mother's  inventiveness.  He  could  see  her 
dressing  up  with  him  on  wet  days,  reciting  King  Henry  to  his 
Prince  Hal,  or  Prospero  to  his  Ariel,  or  simply  giving  free  vent 
to  her  own  exuberant  Irish  fun  till  both  he  and  she  would  sink 
exhausted  into  each  other's  arms,  and  end  the  evening  with  a 
long  croon,  sitting  curled  up  together  in  a  big  arm-chair  in 


54 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


front  cf  the  fire.  He  could  see  himself  as  a  child  of  many 
crazes,  eager  for  poetry  one  week,  for  natural  history  the  next, 
now  spending  all  his  spare  time  in  strumming,  now  in  drawing, 
and  now  forgetting  everything  but  the  delights  of  tree-climbing 
and  bird-nesting. 

And  through  it  all  he  had  the  quick  memory  of  his  mother's 
companionship,  he  could  recall  her  rueful  looks  whenever  the 
eager  inaccurate  ways,  in  which  he  reflected  certain  ineradicable 
tendencies  of  her  own,  had  lost  him  a  school  advantage ;  he 
could  remember  her  exhortations,  with  the  dash  in  them  of 
humorous  self-reproach  which  made  them  so  stirring  to  the 
child's  affection ;  and  he  could  realize  their  old  far-off  life  at 
Murewell,  the  joys  and  the  worries  of  it,  and  see  her  now  gos- 
siping with  the  village  folk,  now  wearing  herself  impetuously 
to  death  in  their  service,  an4  now  roaming  with  him  over  the 
Surrey  heaths  in  search  of  all  the  dirty,  delectable  things 
in  which  a  boy-naturalist  dehghts.  And  through  it  all  he 
was  conscious  of  the  same  vivid  energetic  creature,  dispos- 
ing with  some  diflSculty  and  fracas  of  its  own  excess  of  nerv- 
ous life. 

To  return,  however,  to  thiS  same  critical  moment  of  Sir 
Mowbray's  offer.  Eobert  at  the  time  was  a  boy  of  sixteen, 
doing  very  well  at  school,  a  favorite  both  with  boys  and  mas- 
ters. But  as  to  whether  his  development  would  lead  him  in  the 
direction  of  taking  Orders,  his  mother  had  not  the  shghtest 
idea.  She  was  not  herself  very  much  tempted  by  the  pros- 
pect. There  were  recollections  connected  with  Murewell,  and 
with  th©  long  death. in  hfe  which  her  husband  had  passed 
through  there,  which  were  deeply  painful  to  her;  and,  more- 
over, her  sympathy  with  the  clergy  as  a  class  was  by  no  means 
strong.  Her  experience  had  not  been  large,  but  the  feeling 
based  on  it  promised  to  have  all  the  tenacity  of  a  favorite  preju- 
dice. Fortune  had  handed  over  the  parish  of  Harden  to  a  rit- 
ualist vicar.  Mrs.  Elsmere's  inherited  Evangelicalism— she 
came  from  an  Ulster  county— rebelled  against  his  doctrine, 
but  the  man  himself  was  too  lovable  to  be  disliked.  Mrs. 
Elsmere  knew  a  hero  when  she  saw  him.  And  in  his  own  nar- 
row way,  the  small-headed,  emaciated  vicar  was  a  hero,  and 
he  and  Mrs.  Elsmere  had  soon  taster^  each  other's  quality,  and 
formed  a  curious  aUiance,  founded  on  true  similarity,  in  differ- 
ence. 

But  the  criticism  thus  wardea  off  the  vicar  expended  itself 


ROBERT  ELSMERS. 


55 


with  all  the  more  force  on  his  subordinates.  The  Harden  cu- 
rates* were  the  chief  crook  in  Mrs.  Elsmere's  otherwise  tolerable 
lot.  Her  parish  activities  brought  her  across  them  perpetually, 
and  she  could  not  away  with  them.  Their  cassocks,  their  pre^ 
tensions,  their  stupidities,  roused  the  Irish  woman's  sense  of 
humor  at  every  turn.  The  individuals  came  and  went,  but  the 
type  it  seemed  to  her  was  always  the  same ;  and  she  made  theii 
peculiarities  the  basis  of  a  pessimist  theory  as  to  the  future  of 
the  English  Church,  which  was  a  source  of  constant  amuse- 
ment to  the  very  broad-minded  young  men  who  filled  up  the 
school  staff.  She,  so  ready  in  general  to  see  all  the  world's 
good  points,  was  almost  bhnd  when  it  was  a  curate's  virtues 
which  were  in  question.  So  that,  in  spite  of  all  her  persistent 
church-going,  and  her  love  of  church  performances  as  an  essen- 
tial part  of  the  busy  human  spectacle,  Mrs.  Elsmere  had  no 
yearning  for  a  clerical  son.  The  little  accidents  of  a  personal 
experience  had  led  to  wide  generalizations,  as  is  the  way  with 
us  mortals,  and  the  position  of  the  young  parson  in  these  days 
of  increased  parsonic  pretensions  was,  to  Mrs.  Elsmere,  a  posi- 
tion in  which  there  was  an  inherent  risk  of  absurdity.  She 
wished  her  son  to  impose  upon  her  when  it  came  to  his  taking 
any  serious  step  in  life.  She  asked  for  nothing  better,  indeed, 
than  to  be  able,  when  the  time  -came,  to  bow  the  motherly 
knee  to  him  in  homage,  and  she  felt  a  little  dread  lest,  in  her 
flat  moments,  a  clerical  son  might  sometimes  rouse  in  her  that 
sharp  sense  of  the  ludicrous  which  is  the  enemy  of  all  happy 
illusions. 

Still,  of  course,  the  Elsmere  proposal  was  one  to  be  seriously 
considered  in  its  due  time  and  place.  Mrs.  Elsmere  only  re- 
flected that  it  would  certainly  be  better  to  say  nothing  of  it  to 
Robert  until  he  should  be  at  college.  His  impressionable  tem- 
perament, and  the  pov^^er  he  had  occasionally  shown  of  absorb- 
ing himself  in  a  subject  till  it  produced  in  him  a  fit  of  intense 
continuous  brooding,  unfavorable  to  health  and  nervous  energy, 
all  warned  her  not  to  supply  him,  at  a  period  of  rapid  mental 
and  bodily  growth,  with  any  fresh  stimulus  to  the  sense  of  re- 
sponsibility. As  a  boy,  he  had  always  shown  himself  religiously 
susceptible  to  a  certain  extent,  and  his  mother's  religious  likes 
and  dislikes  had  invariably  found  in  him  a  blind  and  chivalrous 
support.  He  was  content  to  be  with  her,  to  worship  with  her. 
and  to  feel  that  no  reluctance  or  resistance  divided  his  heart 
from  hers.  But  there  had  been  nothing  specially  noteworthy  or 


56 


ROBERT  BLSMERE. 


precocious  about  his  religious  development,  and  at  sixteen  ot 
seventeen,  in  spite  of  his  affectionate  compliance,  and  his  nat- 
ural reverence  for  all  persons  and  beliefs  in  authority,  his 
mother  was  perfectly  aware  that  many  other  things  in  his  life 
were  more  real  to  him  than  religion.  And  on  this  point,  at  any 
rate,  she  was  certainly  not  the  person  to  force  him. 

He  was  such  a  school -boy  as  a  discerning  master  delights  in- 
keen  about  everything,  bright,  docile,  popular,  excellent  at 
games.  He  was  in  the  sixth,  moreover,  as  soon  as  his  age  al- 
lowed :  that  is  to  say,  as  soon  as  he  was  sixteen ;  and  his  pride 
in  everything  connected  with  the  great  body  in  which  he  had 
already  a  marked  and  important  place  was  unbounded.  Very 
early  in  his  school  career  the  hterary  instincts,  which  had  al- 
ways been  present  in  him,  and  which  his  mother  had  largely 
helped  to  develop  by  her  own  restless  imaginative  ways  of  ap- 
proaching life  and  the  world,  made  themselves  felt  with  con- 
siderable force.  Some  time  before  his  cousin's  letter  arrived 
he  had  been  taken  with  a  craze  for  Enghsh  poetry,  and,  but  for 
the  corrective  influence  of  a  favorite  tutor,  would  probably  have 
thrown  himself  into  it  with  the  same  exclusive  passion  as  he 
had  shown  for  subject  after  subject  in  his  eager  ebuUient  child- 
hood. His  mother  found  him  at  thirteen  indicting  a  letter  on 
the  subject  of  ''The  Faerie  Queene"  to  a  school  friend,  in 
which,  with  a  sincerity  which  made  her  forgive  the  pomposity, 
he  remarked : 

"I  can  truly  say,  with  Pope,  that  this  great  work  has  af- 
forded me  extraordinary  pleasure.'' 

And  about  the  same  time,  a  master  who  was  much  interest- 
ed in  the  boy's  prospects  of  getting  the  school  prize  for  Latin 
verse,  a  subject  for  which  he  had  always  shown  a  special  apti- 
tude, asked  him,  anxiously,  after  an  Easter  holiday ,  what  he  had 
been  reading;  *the  boy  ran  his  hand  through  his  hair,  and  still 
keeping  his  finger  between  the  leaves,  shut  a  book  before  him 
from  which  he  had  been  learning  by  heart,  and  which  was,  alas! 
neither  Ovid  nor  Yirgil. 

"I  have  just  finished  Belial!"  he  said,  with  a  sigh  of  satis- 
faction, "and  am  beginning  Beelzebub." 

A  craze  of  this  kind  was  naturally  followed  by  a  feverish 
period  of  juvenile  authorship,  when  the  house  was  littered  over 
with  stanzas  from  the  opening  canto  of  a  great  poem  on  Colum- 
bus, or  with  moral  essays  in  the  manner  of  Pope,  castigating 
the  vices  of  the  time  with  an  energy  which  sorely  tried  the  grav- 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


57 


ity  of  the  mother  whenever  she  was  called  upon,  as  she  invari- 
ably was,  to  play  audience  to  the  young  poet.  At  the  same 
time  the  classics  absorbed  in  reality  their  full  share  of  this  fast- 
developing  power.  Virgil  and  ^schylus  appealed  to  the  same 
fibers,  the  same  susceptibilities,  as  Milton  and  Shakespeare, 
and  the  boy's  quick,  imaginative  sense  appropriated  Greek  and 
Latin  life  with  the  same  ease  which  it  showed  in  possessing  it- 
self of  that  by-gone  English  life  whence  sprung  the  Canter- 
bury Tales,"  or  As  You  Like  It."  So  that  his  tutor,  who  was 
much  attached  to  him,  and  who  made  it  one  of  his  main  objects 
in  Hf e  to  keep  the  boy's  aspiring  nose  to  the  grindstone  of  gram- 
matical minutice,  began  about  the  time  of  Sir  Mowbray's  letter 
to  prophesy  very  smooth  things  indeed  to  his  mother  as  to  his 
future  success  at  college,  the  possibility  of  his  getting  the  fa- 
mous St.  Anselm's  scholarship,  and  so  on. 

Evidently  such  a  youth  was  not  likely  to  depend  for  the  at- 
tainment of  a  foothold  in  life  on  a  piece  of  family  privilege. 
The  world  was  all  before  him  where  to  choose,  Mrs.  Elsmere 
thought  proudly  to  herself,  as  her  mother's  fancy  wandered 
rashly  through  the  coming  years.  And  for  many  reasons  she 
isecretly  allowed  herself  to  hope  that  he  would  find  for  himseK 
some  other  post  of  ministry  in  a  very  various  world  than  the 
vicarage  of  Murewell. 

So  she  wrote  a  civil  letter  of  acknowledgment  to  Sir  Mow- 
bray, informing  him  that  the  intentions  of  his  great-uncle 
should  be  communicated  to  the  boy  when  he  should  be  of  fit  age 
to  consider  them,  and  that  meanwhile  she  was  obliged  to  him 
for  pointing  out  the  procedure  by  which  she  might  lay  hands 
on  the  legacy  bequeathed  to  her  in  trust  for  her  son,  the  income 
of  which  would  now  be  doubly  welcome  in  view  of  his  college 
expenses.  There  the  matter  rested,  and  Mrs.  Elsmere,  during 
the  two  years  which  followed,  thought  little  more  about  it.  She 
became  more  and  more  absorbed  in  her  boy's  immediate  pros- 
pects, in  the  care  of  his  health,  which  was  uneven  and  tried 
somewhat  by  the  strain  of  preparation  for  an  attempt  upon  the 
St.  Anselm's  scholarship,  and  in  the  demands  which  his  ardent 
nature,  oppressed  with  the  weight  of  its  own  aspirations,  was 
constantly  making  upon  her  support  and  sympathy. 

At  last  the  moment  so  long  expected  arrived.  Mrs.  Elsmere 
and  her  son  left  Harden  amid  a  chorus  of  good  wishes,  and  set- 
tled themselves  early  in  November  in  Oxford  lodgings.  Robert 
was  to  have  a  few  days'  complete  holiday  before  the  examina- 


58 


tion,  and  he  and  his  mother  spent  it  in  exploring  the  beautiful 
old  town,  now  shrouded  in  the  pensive  glooms of  still,  gray 
autumn  weather.  There  was  no  sun  to  hght  up  the  misty 
reaches  of  the  river;  the  trees  in  the  Broad  Walk  were  almost 
bare;  the  Virginian  creeper  no  longer  shone  in  patches  of  deli- 
cate crimson  on  the  coUege  waUs;  the  gardens  were  damp  and 
forsaken.  But  to  Mrs.  Elsmere  and  Robert  the  place  needed 
neither  sun  nor  summer  ''for  beauty's  heightening."  On  both 
of  them  it  laid  its  old  irresistible  spell;  the  sentiment  haunting 
its  quadrangles,  its  libraries,  and  its  dim  melodious  chapels, 
stole  into  the  lad's  heart  and  alternately  soothed  and  stimulated 
that  keen  individual  consciousness  which  naturally  accompa- 
nies the  first  entrance  into  manhood.  Here,  on  this  soil,  steeped 
in  memories,  his  problems,  Ms  struggles  were  to  be  fought  out 
in  their  turn.  ' '  Tate  up  thy  manhood, "  said  the  inward  voice, 
''and  show  what  is  iu  thee.  The  hour  and  the  opportunity 
have  come !" 

And  to  this  thi-ill  of  vague  expectation,  this  young  sense  of 
an  expanding  wor-M,  something  of  pathos  and  of  sacredness  was 
added  by  the  duznb  influences  of  the  old  streets  and  weather- 
beaten  stones.  How  tenacious  they  were  of  the  past!  The 
dreaming  cit;f  seemed  to  be  stHl  brooding  in  the  autumn  calm 
over  the  long  fiuccession  of  her  sons.  The  continuity,  the  com- 
plexity of  human  experience;  the  unremitting  effort  of  the 
race ;  the  stream  of  purpose  running  through  it  all— these  were 
the  kind  of  tJioughts  which,  in  more  or  less  inchoate  and  frag- 
mentary shape,  pervaded  the  boy^s  sensitive  mind  as  he  ram- 
bled with  his  mother  from  college  to  college. 

Mrs.  Elsmere,  too,  was  fascmated  by  Oxford.  But  for  all  her 
eager  interest,  the  historic  beauty  of  the  place  aroused  in  her 
an  under-mood  of  melancholy,  just  a^  it  did  in  Robert.  Both 
had  the  impressionable  Celtic  temperament,  and  both  felt  that 
a  critical  moment  was  upon  them,  and  that  the  Oxford  air  was 
charged  in  the  fate  for  each  of  them.  For  the  first  ^ime  in 
their  lives  they  were  parted.  The  mother's  long  guardianship 
was  coming  to  an  end.  Had  she  loved  him,  erough?  Had  she 
so  far  fulfilled  the  trust  her  dead  husband  had  imposed  upon 
her?  Would  her  boy  love  her  in  the  new  life  as  he  had  loved 
her  In  the  old?  And  could  her  poor,  craven  heart  bear  to  see 
him  absorbed  by  fresh  mterests  and  passions,  in  which  her 
share  could  be  only,  at  the  best,  secondary  and  indirect? 

One  day— it  was  on  the  aSJu^jcnoon  preceding  the  examination 


ROBERT  ELSMERB. 


59 


--slie  gave  hurried,  haif-laughing  utterance  to  some  of  these 
misgivings  of  hers.  They  were  walking  down  the  Lime  Walk 
of  IVinity  Gardens ;  beneath  their  feet  a  yellow,  fresh-strewn 
carpet  of  leaves,  brown  interlacing  branches  overhead,  and  C« 
red,  misty  sun  shining  through  the  trunks.  Eobert  understood 
his  mother  perfectly,  and  the  way  she  had  of  hiding  a  storm  of 
feeling  under  these  tremulous  comedy  airs.  So  that,  instead 
of  laughing,  too,  he  took  her  hand  and,  there  being  no  specta- 
tors anywhere  to  be  seen  in  the  damp  November  garden,  he 
raised  it  to  his  lips  with  a  few  broken  words  of  affection  and 
gratitude  which  very  nearly  overcame  the  self-command  of  both 
of  them.  She  dashed  wildly  into  another  subject,  and  then  sud- 
denly it  occurred  to  her  impulsive  mind  that  the  moment  had 
come  to  make  him  acquainted  with  those  dying  intentions  of 
his  great-uncle  which  we  have  already  described.  The  diversion 
was  a  welcome  one,  and  the  duty  seemed  clear.  So,  according- 
ly, she  made  him  give  her  all  his  attention  wliile  she  told  him 
the  story  and  the  terms  of  Sir  Mowbray's  letter,  forcing  herself 
the  while  to  keep  her  own  opinions  and  predilections  as  much 
as  possible  out  of  sight. 

Eobert  listened  with  interest  and  astonishment,  the  sense  of 
a  new-found  manhood  waxing  once  more  strong  within  him,  as 
his  mind  admitted  the  strange  picture  of  himself  occupying  the 
place  which  had  been  his  father's;  master  of  the  house  and  the 
parish  he  had  wandered  over  with  childish  steps,  clinging  to 
the  finger  or  the  coat  of  the  tall,  stooping  figure  which  occupied 
the  dim  background  of  his  recollections.  Poor  mother,"  he 
said,  though^Mly,  when  she  paused,  "it  would  be  hard  upon 
you  to  go  back  to  Murewell  1'* 

''Oh,  you  mustn't  think  of  me  when  the  time  comes,"  said 
Mrs.  Elsmere,  sighing.  "  I  shall  be  a  tiresome  old  woman,  and 
you  will  be  a  young  naan  wanting  a  wife.  There,  put  it  out  of 
your  head,  Eobert.  I  thought  I  had  better  tell  you,  for,  aft(^r 
all,  the  fact  may  concern  your  Oxford  life.  But  youVe  got  a 
long  time  yet  before  you  need  begin  to  worry  about  it." 

The  boy  drew  himseH  up  to  his  full  height,  and  tossed  his 
tumbling  reddish  hair  back  from  his  eyes.  He  was  nearly  six 
feet  already,  with  a  long  thin  body  and  head,  which  amply 
justified  his  school  nickname  of  '*the  darning-needle." 

Don't  you  trouble  either,  mother,"  he  said,  with  a  tone  of 
decision;    I  don't  feel  as  if  I  should  ever  take  Orders." 

Mrs.  Elsmere  was  old  enough  to  know  what  importance  to 


60 


EGBERT  ELSMEKE. 


attach  to  the  trenchancy  of  eighteen,  but  still  the  words  were 
pleasant  to  her. 

The  next  day  Bobert  went  up  for  examination,  and  after  three 
days  of  hard  work,  and  phases  of  alternate  hope  and  depres- 
sion, in  which  mother  and  son  excited  on©  another  to  no  useful 
purpose,  there  came  the  anxious  crowding  round  the  college 
gate  in  the  November  twilight,  and  the  sudden  flight  of  dispers 
ing  messengers  bearing  the  news  over  Oxford.  The  scholarship 
had  been  won  by  a  precocious  Etonian  with  an  extraordinary 
talent  for  ''stems,"  and  all  that  appertaineth  thereto.  But  the 
exhibition  feU  to  Eobert,  and  mother  and  son  were  well  content. 
•  The  boy  was  eager  to  come  into  residence  at  once,  though  he 
would  matriculate  too  late  to  keep  the  term.  The  college  au- 
thorities were  willing,  and  on  the  Saturday  following  the  an- 
nouncement of  his  success  he  was  matriculated,  saw  the  pro- 
vost, and  was  informed  that  rooms  would  be  found  for  him 
without  delay.  His  mother  and  he  gayly  climbed  innumerable 
stairs  to  inspect  the  garrets  of  which  he  was  soon  to  take  proud 
possession,  sallying  forth  from  them  only  to  enjoy  an  agitated 
delightful  afternoon  among  the  shops.  Expenditure,  always 
charming,  becomes  under  these  circumstances  a  sacred  and 
pontifical  act.  Never  had  Mrs.  Elsmere  bought  a  tea-pot  for 
herself  with  half  the  fervor  which  she  now  threw  into  the  pur- 
chase of  Eobert's;  and  the  young  man,  accustomed  to  a  rather 
bare  home,  and  an  Irish  lack  of  the  httle  elegancies  of  Hfe,  was 
overwhelmed  when  his  mother  actually  dragged  him  into  a 
print-seller's,  and  added  an  engraving  or  two  to  the  enticing 
miscellaneous  mass  of  which  he  was  already  master. 

They  only  just  left  themselves  time  to  rush  back  to  their 
lodgings  and  dress  for  the  solemn  function  of  a  dinner  with  the 
provost.  The  dinner,  however,  was  a  great  success.  The  short, 
shy  manner  of  their  white-haired  host  thawed  under  the  influ«= 
ence  of  Mrs.  Elsmere's  racy,  unaffected  ways,  and  it  was  not 
long  before  everybody  in  the  room  had  more  or  less  made 
friends  with  her,  and  forgiven  her  her  marvelous  drab  poplin, 
adorned  with  fresh  pink  rutjhings  for  the  occasion.  As  for  the 
provost,  Mrs.  Elsmere  had  been  told  that  he  was  a  person  of 
whom  she  must  inevitably  stand  in  awe.  But  all  her  life  long 
she  had  been  like  the  youth  in  the  fairy  tale  who  desired  to 
learn  how  to  shiver  and  could  not  attain  unto  it.  Fate  had 
denied  her  the  capacity  of  standing  in  awe  of  anybody,  and  she 
rushed  at  her  host  as  a  new  type,  delighting  m  the  thrill  which 


61 


she  felt  creeping  over  her  when  she  found  herself  on  the  arm 
of  one  who  had  been  the  rallymg  point  of  a  hundred  struggles, 
and  a  centre  of  influence  over  thousands  of  EngHsh  lives. 

And  then  followed  the  proud  moment  when  Kobert,  in  his 
exhibitioner's  gown,  took  her  to  service  in  the  chapel  on  Sun- 
'day.  The  scores  of  young  faces,  the  full  unison  of  the  hymns, 
and  finally  the  provost's  sermon,  with  its  strange  brusqueries 
and  simplicities  of  manner  and  phrase— simplicities  so^  sugges- 
tive, so  full  of  a  rich  and  yet  disciplined  experience  that  they 
haunted  her  mind  for  weeks  afterward— completed  the  general 
impression  made  upon  her  by  the  Oxford  life.  She  came  out, 
tremulous  and  shaken,  leaning  on  her  son's  arm.  She,  too,  like 
the  generations  before  her,  had  launched  her  venture  into  the 
deep.  Her  boy  was  putting  out  from  her  into  the  ocean,  hence- 
forth she  could  but  watch  him  from  the  shore.  Brought  into 
contact  with  this  imposing  university  organization,  with  all  its 
suggestions  of  virile  energies  and  functions,  the  mother  sudden- 
ly felt  herself  insignificant  and  forsaken.  He  had  been  her  all, 
her  own,  and  now  on  this  training-ground  of  English  youth,  it 
seemed  to  her  that  the  great  human  society  had  claimed  him 
from  her. 

CHAPTER  V. 

In  his  Oxford  hf e  Robert  surrendered  himself  to  the  best  and 
most  stin;^ulating  influences  of  the  place,  just  as  he  had  done  at 
school.  He  was  a  youth  of  many  friends,  by  virtue  of  a  natural 
gift  of  sympathy,  which  was  no  doubt  often  abused,  and  by  no 
means  invariably  profitable  to  its  owner,  but  wherein,  at  any 
rate,  his  power  over  his  fellows,  like  the  power  of  half  the  po- 
tent men  in  the  world's  history,  always  lay  rooted.  He  had 
his  mother's  delight  in  living.  He  loved  the  cricket-field,  he 
loved  the  river;  his  athletic  instincts  and  his  athletic  friends 
were  always  fighting  in  him  with  his  literary  instincts  and  the 
friends  who  appealed  primarily  to  the  intellectual  and  moral 
side  of  him.  He  made  many  mistakes  alike  in  friends  and  in 
pursuits ;  in  the  freshness  of  a  young  and  roving  curiosity  he 
had  great  difficulty  in  submitting  himself  to  the  intellectual 
routine  of  the  university,  a  difficulty  which  ultimately  cost  him 
much;  but  at  the  bottom  of  the  lad,  all  the  time,  there  was  a 
strength  of  will,  a  force  and  even  tyranny  of  conscience,  which 
kept  his  charm  and  pliancy  from  degenerating  into  weakness, 
and  made  it  not  only  delightful,  but  profitable  to  love  Mrr* , 


•62 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


knew  that  his  mother  was  bound  up  in  him,  and  his  being  was 
set  to  satisfy,  so  far  as  he  could,  all  her  honorable  ambitions. 

His  many  under-graduate  friends,  strong  as  their  influence 
must  have  been  in  the  aggregate  on  a  natm^e  so  receptive,  hard- 
ly  concern  us  here.  His  future  life,  so  far  as  we  can  see,  was 
most  noticeably  affected  by  two  men  older  than  himself,  and 
belonging  to  the  dons— both  of  them  fellows  and  tutors  of  St. 
Anselm's,  though  on  different  planes  of  age. 

The  first  one,  Edward  Langbam,  was  Robert's  tutor,  and 
about  seven  years  older  than  himself.  He  was  a  man  about 
whom,  on  entering  the  college,  Robert  heard  more  than  the 
usual  crop  of  stories.  The  healthy  young  Enghsh  barbarian 
has  an  aversion  to  the  intrusion  of  more  manner  into  life  than 
is  absolutely  necqpsary.  Now,  Langham  was  overburdened 
with  manner,  though  it  was  manner  of  the  depreciating  and 
not  of  the  arrogant  order.  Decisions,  it  seemed,  of  all  sorts 
were  abominable  to  him.  To  help  a  friend  he  had  once  con- 
sented to  be  pro-proctor.  He  resigned  in  a  montb,  and  none  of 
his  acquaintances  ever  afterward  dared  to  allude  to  the  experi- 
ence. If  you  could  have  got  at  his  inmost  mind,  it  was  afl^rmed, 
the  persons  most  obnoxious  there  would  have  been  found  to  be 
the  scout,  who  intrusively  asked  him  every  morning  what  he 
would  have  for  breakfast,  and  the  college  cook,  who,  till  such  a 
course  was  strictly  forbidden  him,  mounted  to  his  room  at  half 
past  nine  to  inquire  whether  he  would  ''dine  in."  Being  a 
scholar  of  considerable  eminence,  it  pleased  him  to  fissume  on 
all  questions  an  exasperating  degree  of  ignorance ;  and  the  wags 
of  the  college  averred  that  when  asked  if  it  rained,  or  if  collec- 
tions took  place  on  such  and  such  a  day,  it  was  pain  and  grief 
to  him  to  have  to  affirm  positively,  without  qualifications,  that 
so  it  was. 

Such  a  man  was  not  very  likely,  one  would  have  thought,  to 
captivate  an  ardent,  impulsive  boy  Hke  Elsmere.  Edward 
Langham,  however,  notwithstanding  under-graduate  tales,  was 
a  very  remarkable  person.  In  the  first  place  he  was  possessed 
of  exceptional  personal  beauty.  His  coloring  was  vividly  black 
and  white,  closely  curling  jet-black  hair,  and  fine  black  eyes 
contrasting  with  a  pale,  clear  complexion  and  even,  white  teeth. 
So  far  he  had  the  characteristics  which  certain  Irishmen  share 
with  most  Spaniards.  But  the  Celtic  or  Iberian  brilhance  was 
balanced  by  a  classical  delicacy  and  precision  of  feature.  He 
had  the  brow.  Use  nose,  the  upper  ^p,  the  finely  molded  chin, 


ROBERT  ElSMERJC.  68 

which  belong  to  the  more  severe  and  spiritual  Greek  type.  Cer- 
tainly of  Greek  bhtheness  and  directness  there  was  no  trace. 
The  eye  was  wavering  and  profoundly  melancholy ;  all  the  move- 
ments of  the  tall,  finely  built  frame  were  hesitating  and  doubt- 
ful. It  was  as  though  the  man  were  suffering  from  paralysis  of 
some  moral  muscle  or  other;  as  if  some  of  the  normal  springs  of 
action  in  him  had  been  profoundly  and  permanently  weakened. 

He  had  a  curious  history.  He  was  the  only  child  of  a  doctor 
in  a  Lincolnshire  country  town.  His  old  parents  had  brought 
him  up  in  strict  provincial  ways,  ignoring  the  boy's  idiosyn- 
crasies as  much  as  possible.  They  did  not  want  an  exceptional 
and  abnormal  son,  and  they  tried  to  put  down  his  dreamy,  self- 
conscious  habits  by  forcing  him  into  the  common,  middle-class, 
EvangeUcal  groove.  As  soon  as  he  got  to  college,  however, 
the  brooding,  gifted  nature  had  a  moment  of  sudden  and,  as  it 
seemed  to  the  old  people  in  Gainsborough,  most  reprehensible 
expansion.  Poems  were  sent  to  them,  cut  out  of  one  or  the 
other  of  the  leading  periodicals,  with  their  son's  initials  ap- 
pended, and  articles  of  philosophical  art-criticism,  published 
while  the  boy  was  still  an  under -graduate — which  seemed  to  the 
stern  father  everything  that  was  sophistical  and  subversive. 
For  they  treated  Christianity  itself  as  an  open  question,  and 
showed  especially  scant  respect  for  the  Protestantism  of  the 
Protestant  religion."  The  father  warned  him  grimly  that  he 
was  not  going  to  spend  his  hard-earned  savings  on  the  support 
of  a  free-thinking  scribbler,  and  the  young  man  wrote  no  more 
till  just  after  he  had  taken  a  double  first  in  Greats.  Then  the 
pubhcation  of  an  article  in  one  of  the  leading  reviews  on  The 
Ideals  of  Modern  Culture"  not  only  brought  him  a  furious 
letter  from  home  stopping  all  supplies,  but  also  lost  him  a  prob- 
able fellowship.  His  college  was  one  of  the  narrowest  and  most 
backward  in  Oxford,  and  it  was  made  perfectly  plain  to  him  be- 
fore the  fellowship  examination  that  he  would  not  be  elected. 

He  left  the  college,  took  pupils  for  awhile,  then  stood  for  a 
vacant  fellowship  at  St.  Anselm's,  the  Liberal  head-quarters, 
and  got  it  with  flying  colors. 

Thenceforward  one  would  have  thought  that  a  brilliant  and 
favorable  mental  development  was  secured  to  him.  Not  at  all. 
The  moment  of  his  quarrel  with  his  father  and  his  college  had, 
in  fact,  represented  a  moment  of  energy,  of  comparative  suc- 
cess, which  never  recurred.  It  was  as  though  this  outburst  of 
action  and  liberty  had  disappointed  him,  as  if  some  deep-rooted 


64 


ROBERT  ELSMERK. 


instinct —cold,  critical,  reflective— had  reasserted  itself,  con- 
demning him  and  his  censors  equally.  The  uselessness  of  utter- 
*ance,  the  futility  of  enthusiasm,  the  inaccessibility  of  the  ideal, 
the  practical  absurdity  of  trying  to  realize  any  of  the  mind's 
inward  dreams ;  these  were  the  kind  of  considerations  which 
descended  upon  him,  slowly  and  fatally,  cinishing  down  the 
newly  springing  growths  of  action  or  of  passion.  It  was  as 
though  life  had  demonstrated  to  him  the  essential  truth  of  a 
childish  saying  of  his  own  which  had  startled  and  displeased 
his  Calvinist  mother  years  before.  Mother,"  the  delicate, 
large-eyed  child  had  said  to  her  one  day  in  a  fit  of  physical 
weariness,  "how  is  it  I  dislike  the  things  I  dislike  so  much  more 
than  I  like  the  things  I  like?" 

So  he  wrote  no  more,  he  quarreled  no  more,  he  meddled  with 
the  great  passionate  things  of  life  and  expression  no  more.  On 
his  taking  up  residence  in  St.  Anselm's,  indeed,  and  on  his  be- 
ing appointed  first  lecturer  and  then  tutor,  he  had  a  momen- 
tary pleasure  in  the  thought  of  teaching.  His  mind  was  a  store- 
house of  thought  and  fact,  and  to  the  man  brought  up  at  a  dull 
provincial  day-school  and  never  allowed  to  associate  freely  with 
his  kind,  the  bright  lads  fresh  from  Eton  and  Harrow  about 
him  were  singularly  attractive.  But  a  few  terms  were  enough 
to  scatter  this  illusion,  too.  He  could  not  be  simple,  he  could 
not  be  spontaneous ;  he  was  tormented  by  self -consciousness, 
and  it  was  impossible  to  him  to  talk  and  behave  as  those  talk 
and  behave  who  have  been  brought  up  more  or  less  in  the  big 
world  from  the  beginning.  So  this  dream,  too,  faded,  for  youth 
asks,  before  all  things,  simplicity  and  spontaneity  in  those  who 
would  take  possession  of  it.  His  lectures,  which  were  at  first 
brilliant  enough  to  attract  numbers  of  men  from  other  colleges, 
became  gradually  mere  dry,  ingenious  skeletons,  without  life 
or  feeling.  It  was  possible  to  learn  a  great  deal  from  him ;  it 
was  not  possible  to  catch  from  him  any  contagion  of  that  amor 
intellectualis  which  had  flamed  at  one  moment  so  high  within 
him.  He  ceased  to  compose;  but  as  the  intellectual  faculty 
must  have  some  employment,  he  became  a  translator,  a  con- 
tributor to  dictionaries,  a  microscopic  student  of  texts,  not  in 
the  interest  of  anything  beyond,  but  simply  as  a  kind  of  men- 
tal stone-breaking. 

The  only  survival  of  that  moment  of  glow  and  color  in  liis  lif  9 
was  his  love  of  music  and  the  theater.  Almost  every  year  be 
disappeared  to  France  to  haunt  the  Paris  theaters  for  a  fort- 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


65 


night ;  to  Berlin  or  Bayreuth  to  drink  his  fill  of  music.  He  talked 
neither  of  music  nor  of  acting;  he  made  no  one  sharer  of  his 
enjoyment,  if  he  did  enjoy.  It  was  simply  his  way  of  cheating 
his  creative  faculty,  which,  though  it  had  grown  impotent,  was 
still  there,  still  restless.  Altogether  a  melancholy,  pitiable  man 
—at  once  thorough-going  sceptic  and  thorough-going  idealist, 
the  victim  of  that  critical  sense  which  says  No  to  every  impulse, 
and  is  always  restlessly,  and  yet  hopelessly,  seeking  the  future 
through  the  neglected  and  outraged  present. 

And  yet  the  mean's  instincts,  at  this  period  of  his  life,  at  any 
rate,  were  habitually  kindly  and  affectionate.  He  knew  noth- 
ing of  women,  and  was  not  liked  hy  them,  but  it  was  not  his 
fault  if  he  made  no  impression  on  the  youth  about  him.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  was  always  seeking  in  their  eyes  and 
faces  for  some  Hght  of  sympathy  which  was  always  escaping 
him,  and  which  he  was  powerless  to  compel.  He  met  it  for 
the  first  time  in  Eobert  Elsmere.  The  susceptible,  poetical  boy 
was  struck  at  some  favorable  moment  by  that  romantic  side  of 
the  ineffective  tutor— his  silence,  his  melancholy,  his  personal 
beauty— which  no  one  else,  with  perhaps  one  or  two  exceptions 
among  the  older  men,  cared  to  take  into  account;  or  touched 
perhaps  by  some  note  in  him,  surprised  in  passing,  of  weariness 
or  shrinking,  as  compared  with  the  contemptuous  tone  of  the 
coUege  toward  him.  He  showed  his  liking  impetuosly,  boy- 
ishly, as  his  way  was,  and  thenceforward  during  his  university 
career  Langham  became  his  slave.  He  had  no  ambition  for 
himself;  his  motto  might  have  been  that  dismal  one— ''The 
small  things  of  life  are  odious  to  me,  and  the  habit  of  them  en- 
slaves me ;  the  great  things  of  life  are  eternally  attractive  to  me, 
and  indolence  and  fear  put  them  by;"  but  for  the  university 
chances  of  this  lanky,  red-haired  youth— with  his  eagerness, 
his  boundless  curiosity,  his  genius  for  all  sorts  of  lovable  mis- 
fcakes  -he  disquieted  himself  greatly.  He  tried  to  discipline  the 
roving  mind,  to  infuse  into  the  boy's  literary  temper  the  del- 
icc^cy,  the  precision,  the  sublety  of  his  own.  His  fastidious, 
critical  habits  of  work  supplied  exactly  that  antidote  which 
Elsmere's  main  faults  of  haste  and  carelessness  required.  He 
was  always  holding  up  before  him  the  inexhaustible  patience 
and  labor  involved  in  all  true  knowledge;  and  it  was  to  the 
germs  of  critical  judgment  so  implanted  in  him  that  Elsmere 
owed  many  of  the  later  growths  of  his  development— growths 
with  which  we  have  not  yet  to  concern  ourselves. 


66 


ROBERT  ELSMERK. 


And  in  return,  the  tutor  allowed  himself  rarely,  very  rarely, 
a  moment  of  utterance  from  the  depths  of  .his  real  self.  One 
Evening  in  the  summer  term  following  the  boy's  matriculation, 
Elsmere  brought  him  an  essay  after  Hall,  and  they  sat  on  talk- 
ing afterward.  It  was  a  rainy,  cheerless  evening ;  the  first  con- 
test of  the  Boats  week  had  been  rowed  in  cold  wind  and  sleet ; 
a  dreary  blast  whistled  through  the  college.  Suddenly  Langham 
reached  out  his  hand  for  an  open  letter.  ''I  have  had  an  offer, 
Elsmere,"  he  said  abruptly. 

And  he  put  it  into  his  hand.  It  was  the  offer  of  an  important 
Scotch  professorship,  coming  from  the  man  most  influential  in 
assigning  it.  The  last  occupant  of  the  post  had  been  a  scholar 
of  European  eminence.  Langham's  contributions  to  a  great 
foreign  review,  and  certain  Oxford  recommendations,  were  the 
basis  of  the  present  overture,  which,  coming  from  one  who  was 
himself  a  classic  of  the  classics,  was  couched  in  terms  flattering 
to  any  young  man's  vanity. 

Eobert  looked  up  with  a  joyful  exclamation  when  he  had  fln- 
ished  the  letter. 

' '  1  congratulate  you,  sir. " 
*  a  have  refused  it,"  said  Langham,  abruptly. 
His  companion  sat  oi)en-mouthed.  Young  as  he  was,  he  knew 
perfectly  well  that  this  particular  appointment  was^^one  of  the 
blue  ribbons  of  British  scholarship. 

**  Do  you  think  "—said  the  other  in  a  tone  of  singular  vibra- 
tion, which  had  in  it  a  note  of  almost  contemptuous  irritation— 
do  you  think  I  am  the  man  to  get  and  keep  a  hold  on  a  ram- 
pagious  class  of  hundreds  of  Scotch  lads?  Do  you  think  I  am 
the  man  to  carry  on  what  Reid  began— Reid,  that  old  fighter, 
that  preacher  of  all  sorts  of  jubilant  dogmas?" 

He  looked  at  Elsmere  under  his  straight  black  brows  imperi- 
ously. The  youth  felt  the  nervous  tension  in  the  elder  man's 
voice  and  manner,  was  startled  by  a  confidence  never  before 
bestowed  upon  him,  close  as  that  imequal  bond  between  them 
had  been  growing  during  the  six  months  of  his  Oxford  life,  and 
plucking  up  courage  hurled  at  him  a  number  of  frank,  young 
expostulations,  which  really  put  into  friendly  shape  all  that  was 
being  said  about  Langham  in  his  college  and  in  the  university. 
Why  was  he  so  self -distrustful,  so  absurdly  diffident  of  respon- 
sibility, so  bent  on  hiding  his  great  gifts  under  a  bushel? 

The  tutor  smiled  sadly,  and,  sitting  down,  buried  his  head  in 
his  hands  and  said  nothing  for jl while.   Then  he  looked  up  and 


EGBERT  ELSMERE. 


stretched  out  a  hand  toward  a  book  which  lay  on  a  table  near. 
It  was  the  "Reveries "  of  Senancour.  ''My  answer  is  written 
^e,"  he  said.  ''It  will  seem  to  you  now,  Elsmere,  mere  mid- 
summer madness.  May  it  always  seem  so  to  you.  Forgive 
me.   The  pressm'e  of  solitude  sometimes  is  too  great." 

Elsmere  looked  up  with  one  of  his  flashing,  affectionate 
smiles,  and  took  the  book  from  Langham's  hand.  He  f oimd  on 
the  open  page  a  marked  passage: 

''  Oh,  swiftly  passing  seasons  of  life !  There  was  a  time  when 
men  seemed  to  be  sincere;  when  thought  was  nourished  on 
friendship,  kindness,  love ;  when  dawn  still  kept  its  brilliance, 
and  the  night  its  peace.  I  can,  the  soul  said  to  itself,  and  1 
will;  I  will  do  all  that  is  right— all  that  is  natural.  But  soon 
resistance,  difficulty,  unforseen,  coming  we  know  not  whence, 
arrest  us,  undeceive  us,  and  the  human  yoke  grows  heavy  on 
our  necks.  Thenceforward  we  *become  merely  sharers  in  the 
common  woe.  Hemmed  in  on  all  sides,  we  feel  our  faculties 
only  to  realize  their  impotence :  we  have  time  and  strength  to 
do  what  we  must,  never  what  we  wiQ.  Men  go  on  repeating 
the  words  work,  genius^  success.  Fools!  Will  all  these  re- 
sounding projects,  though  they  enable  us  to  cheat  ourselves, 
enable  us  to  cheat  the  icy  fate  which  rules  us  and  our  globe, 
wandering  forsaken  through  the  vast  silence  of  the  heavens?" 

Robert  looked  up  startled,  the  book  dropping  from  his  hand. 
The  words  sent  a  chill  to  the  heart  of  one  bom  to  hope,  to  will, 
to  crave. 

Suddenly  Langham  dashed  the  volume  from  him,  almost  with 
violence. 

"  Forget  that  drivel,  Elsmere.  It  was  a  crime  to  show  it  to 
you.  It  is  not  sane ;  neither  perhaps  am  I.  But  I  am  not  goiiig 
to  Scotland.   They  would  request  me  to  resign  in  a  week." 

Long  after  Elsmere,  who  had  stayed  talking  awhile  on  other 
things,  had  gone,  Langham  sat  on  brooding  over  the  empty 
grate. 

' '  Corrupter  of  youth !"  he  said  to  himself  once  bitterly.  And 
perhaps  it  was  to  a  certain  remorse  in  the  tutor's  mind  that  Els- 
mere owed  an  experience  of  great  importance  to  his  after  life. 

The  name  of  a  certain  Mr.  Grey  had  for  some  time  before  his 
entry  at  Oxford  been  more  or  less  familiar  to  Robert's  ears  as 
that  of  a  person  of  great  influence  and  consideration  at  St.  An- 
selm's.  His  tutor  at  Harden  had  spoken  of  him  in  the  boy's 
hearing  as  one  of  the  most  remarkable  men  of  the  generation, 


68 


ROBEET  ELSMERB. 


and  had  several  times  impressed  upon  his  pupil  that  nothing 
could  be  so  desirable  for  him  as  to  secure  the  friendship  of  such 
a  man.  It  was  on  the  occasion  of  his  first  interview  with  the 
provost,  after  the  scholarship  examination,  that  Robert  was  first 
brought  face  to  face  with  Mr.  Grey.  He  could  remember  a 
short  dark  man  standing  beside  the  provost,  who  had  been  in- 
troduced to  him  by  that  namCr  but  the  nervousness  of  the  mo- 
ment had  been  so  great  that  the  boy  had  been  quite  incapable 
of  giving  him  any  special  attention. 

During  his  first  term  and  a  half  of  residence,  Robert  occa- 
sionally met  Mr.  Grey  in  the  quadrangle  or  in  the  street,  and 
the  tutor,  resembling  the  thin,  bright-faced  youth,  would  return 
his  salutations  kindly,  and  sometimes  stop  to  speak  to  him,  to 
ask  him  if  he  were  comfortably  settled  in  his  rooms,  or  make  a 
remark  about  the  boats.  But  the  acquaintance  did  not  seem 
likely  to  progress,  for  Mr.  Grey  was  a  Greats  tutor,  and  Robert 
naturally  had  nothing  to  do  with  him  as  far  as  work  was  con- 
cerned. 

However,  a  day  or  two  after  the  conversation  we  have  de- 
scribed, Robert,  going  to  Langham's  rooms  late  in  the  after- 
noon to  return  a  book  which  had  been  lent  to  him,  perceived 
two  figures  standing  talking  on  the  hearth-rug,  and  by  the 
western  light  beating  in  recognized  the  thickset  frame  and 
broad  brow  of  Mr.  Grey. 

Come  in,  Elsmere,"  said  Langham,  as  he  stood  hesitating  on 
the  threshold.   You  have  met  Mr.  Grey  before,  I  think?" 

We  first  met  at  an  anxious  moment,"  said  Mr.  Grey,  smil- 
ing and  shaking  hands  with  the  boy.  A  first  interview  with 
the  provost  is  always  formidable.  I  remember  it  too  well  my- 
seK.  You  did  very  well,  I  remember,  Mr.  Elsmere.  Well, 
Langham,  I  must  be  off.  I  shall  be  late  for  my  meeting  as  it 
is.   I  think  we  have  settled  our  business.  Good-night." 

Langham  stood  a  moment  after  the  door  closed,  eying  young 
Elsmere.  There  was  a  curious  struggle  going  on  in  the  tutor's 
mind. 

Elsmere,"  he  said  at  last,  abruptly,  would  you  hke  to  go 
to-night  and  hear  Grey  preach  ?" 

* '  Preach  1"  exclaimed  the  lad.  * '  I  thought  he  was  a  layman, " 

So  he  is.  It  will  be  a  lay  sermon.  It  was  always  the  cus- 
tom here  with  the  clerical  tutors  to  address  their  men  once  a 
term  before  Communion  Sunday,  and  some  years  ago,  when 
Grey  first  became  tutor,  he  determined,  though  he  was  a  lay- 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


69 


man,  to  carry  on  the  practice.  It  was  an  extraordinary  effort, 
for  he  is  a  man  to  whom  words  on  such  a  subject  are  the  coin- 
ing of  his  heart's  blood,  and  he  has  repeated  it  very  rarely.  It 
is  two  years  now  since  his  last  address." 

Of  course  I  should  like  to  go,"  said  Robert  with  eagerness. 
*'Isitopen?" 

Strictly  it  is  for  his  Greats  pupils,  but  I  can  take  you  in. 
It  is  hardly  meant  for  freshmen ;  but— well,  you  are  far  enough 
on  to  make  it  interesting  to  you." 

"  The  lad  will  take  to  Grey's  influence  like  a  fish  to  water," 
thought  the  tutor  to  himself  when  he  was  alone,  not  without  a 
strange  reluctance.  Well,  no  one  can  say  I  have  not  given 
him  his  opportunity  to  be  *  earnest.' " 

The  sarcasm  of  the  last  word  was  the  kind  of  sarcasm  which 
a  man  of  his  type  in  an  earlier  generation  might  have  applied 
to  the  "  earnestness  "  of  an  Arnoldian  Rugby. 

At  eight  o'clock  that  evening  Robert  found  himself  crossing 
the  quadrangle  with  Langham  on  the  way  to  one  of  the  larger 
lecture  rooms,  which  was  to  be  the  scene  of  the  address.  The 
room  when  they  got  in  was  already  nearly  full,  all  the  working 
feUows  of  the  college  were  present,  and  a  body  of  some  thirty 
men  besides,  most  of  them  already  far  on  in  their  university 
career.  A  minute  or  two  afterward  Mr.  Grey  entered.  The 
door  opening  on  to  the  quadrangle,  where  the  trees,  undeterred 
by  east  wind,  were  just  bursting  into  leaf,  was  shut;  and  the 
little  assembly  knelt,  while  Mr.  Grey's  voice  with  its  broad  in- 
tonation, in  which  a  strong  native  homeliness  lingered  under 
the  gentleness  of  accent,  recited  the  collect  '*Lord  of  all  power 
and  might,"  a  silent  pause  following  the  last  words.  Then  the 
audience  settled  itself,  and  Mr.  Grey,  standing  by  a  small  deal 
table  with  the  gas-light  behind  him,  began  his  address. 

All  the  main  points  of  the  experience  which  followed  stamped 
themselves  on  Robert's  mind  with  extraordinary  intensity.  Nor 
did  he  ever  lose  the  memory  of  the  outward  scene.  In  after* 
years,  memory  could  always  recall  to  him  at  will  the  face  and 
figiu'e  of  the  speaker,  the  massive  head,  the  deep  eyes  sunk 
under  the  brows,  the  Midland  accent,  the  make  of  limb  and 
features  which  seemed  to  have  some  suggestion  in  them  of  the 
rude  strength  and  simplicity  of  a  peasant  ancestry;  and  then 
the  nobility,  the  fire,  the  spiritual  beauty  flashing  through  it 
all  I  Here,  indeed,  was  a  man  on  whom  his  fellows  might  lean, 
a  man  in  whom  the  generatian  of  spiritual  force  was  so  strong 


70 


ROBERT  BLSMERK. 


and  continuous  that  it  overflowed  of  necessity  into  the  poorer, 
barrener  Uves  around  him,  kindling  and  enriching.  Robert 
felt  himself  seized  and  penetrated,  filled  with  a  fervor  and  an 
admiration  which  he  was  too  young  and  immature  to  analyze, 
but  which  was  to  be  none  the  less  potent  and  lasting. 

Much  of  the  sermon  itself,  indeed,  was  beyond  him.  It  was 
of  the  meaning  of  St.  Paul's  great  conception,  Death  unto 
sin  and  a  new  birth  unto  righteousness  ?"  What  did  the  apostle 
mean  by  a  death  to  sin  and  self?  What  were  the  precise  ideas 
attached  to  the  words  ''risen  with  Christ"?  Are  this  death 
and  this  resiu-rection  necessarily  dependent  upon  certain  alleged 
historical  events?  Or  are  they  not  primarily,  and  were  they 
not,  even  in  the  mind  of  St.  Paul,  two  aspects  of  a  spiritual 
process  perpetually  re-enacted  in  the  soul  of  man,  and  consti- 
tuting the  veritable  revelation  of  God?  Which  is  the  stable 
and  lasting  witness  of  the  Father:  the  spiritual  history  of  the 
individual  and  the  world,  or  the  envelope  of  miracle  to  which 
hitherto  mankind  has  attributed  so  much  importance? 

Mr.  Grey's  treatment  of  these  questions  was  clothed,  through- 
out a  large  portion  of  the  lecture,  in  metaphysical  language, 
^hich  no  boy  fresh  from  school,  however  intellectually  quick, 
could  be  expected  to  follow  with  any  precision.  It  was  not, 
therefore,  the  argument,  or  the  logical  structure  of  the  sei-mon, 
whicL  so  profoundly  affected  young  Elsmere.  It  was  the 
speake:  himself,  and  the  occasional  passages  in  which,  address- 
ing himself  to  the  practical  needs  of  his  hearers,  he  put  before 
them  the  claims  and  conditions  of  the  higher  hfe  with  a  preg- 
nan'  simpHcity  and  rugged  beauty  of  phrase.  Conceit,  selfish- 
neb vice— how,  as  he  spoke  of  them,  they  seemed  to  wither 
fro-  his  presence!  How  the  "pitiful,  earthly  self"  with  its 
passion  and  its  cravings,  sunk  into  nothingness  beside  the 
*•  great  ideas "  and  the  "great  causes "  for  which,  as  Christians 
and  as  men,  he  claimed  their  devotion. 

To  the  boy  sitting  among  the  crowd  at  the  back  of  the  room, 
his  face  supported  in  his  hands  and  his  gleaming  eyes  fixed  on 
the  speaker,  it  seemed  as  if  all  the  poetry  and  history  through 
which  a  restless  curiosity  and  ideality  had  carried  him  so  far 
took  a  new  meaning  from  this  experience.  It  was  by  men  like 
this  that  the  moral  progress  of  the  world  had  been  shaped  and 
inspired ;  he  felt  brought  near  to  the  great  primal  forces  breath- 
ing through  the  divine  workshop;  and  in  place  of  natural  dis- 
position and  reverent  compliance,  there  sprung  up  in  him  sud- 


ROBBKT  BLSMEBE. 


71 


denly  an  actual  burning  certainty  of  belief.  Axioms  are  not 
axioms,"  said  poor  Keats,  '*till  they  have  been  proved  upon 
our  pulses;"  and  the  old  familiar  figure  of  the  divine  combat, 
of  the  struggle  in  which  man  and  God  are  one,  was  proved 
once  more  upon  a  human  pulse  on  that  May  night,  in  the  hush 
of  that  quiet  lecture-room. 

As  the  little  moving  crowd  of  men  dispersed  over  the  main 
quadrangle  to  their  respective  staircases,  Langham  and  Robert 
stood  together  a  moment  in  the  windy  darkness,  lighted  by  the 
occasional  glimmering  of  a  cloudy  moon. 

''Thank  you,  thank  you,  sir!"  said  the  lad,  eager  and  yet 
afraid  to  speak,  lest  he  should  break  the  spell  of  memory.  ''  I 
should  be  sorry  indeed  to  have  missed  that !" 

''Yes,  it  was  fine,  extraordinarily  fine,  the  best  he  has  evei 
given,  I  think.  Good-night." 

And  Langham  turned  away,  his  head  sunk  on  his  breast,  his 
hands  behind  him.  Robert  went  to  his  room  conscious  of  a 
momentary  check  of  feeling.  But  it  soon  passed,  and  he  sat 
up  late,  thinking  of  the  sermon,  or  pouring  out  in  a  letter  to 
his  mother  the  new  hero-worship  of  which  his  mind  was  full. 

A  few  days  later,  as  it  happened,  came  an  invitation  to  the 
junior  exhibitioner  to  spend  an  evening  at  Mr.  Grey's  house. 
Eismere  went  in  a  state  of  curious  eagerness  and  trepidation, 
and  came  away  with  a  number  of  fresh  impressions  which, 
when  he  had  put  them  into  order,  did  but  quicken  his  new- 
born sense  of  devotion.  The  quiet  unpretending  house  with  its 
exquisite  neatness  and  its  abundance  of  books,  the  family  life, 
with  the  heart-happiness  underneath,  and  the  gentle  trTOt  and 
courtesy  on  the  surface,  the  little  touches  of  austerity  which 
betrayed  themselves  here  and  there  in  the  household  ways— all 
these  surroundings  stole  into  the  lad's  imagination,  touched  in 
him  responsive  fibers  of  taste  and  feeling. 

But  there  was  some  surprise,  too,  mingled  with  the  charm. 
He  came,  still  shaken,  as  it  were,  by  the  power  of  the  sermon, 
expecting  to  see  in  the  preacher  of  it  the  outward  and  visible 
signs  of  a  leadership  which,  as  he  already  knew,  was  a  great 
force  in  Oxford  life.  His  mood  was  that  of  the  disciple  only 
eager  to  be  enrolled.  And  what  he  found  was  a  quiet,  friend- 
ly host,  surrounded  by  a  group  of  men  talking  the  ordinary 
pleasant  Oxford  chit-chat — the  river,  the  schools,  the  union, 
the  football  matches,  and  so  on.  Every  now  and  then,  as  Els- 
mere  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  circle  listening,  the  rugged  face 


72 


EGBERT  ELSMERE, 


in  the  center  of  it  would  break  into  a  smile,  or  some  boyish 
speaker  would  elicit  the  low  spontaneous  laugh  in  which  there 
was  such  a  sound  of  human  fellowship,  such  a  genuine  note  of 
self-forgetfulness.  Sometimes  the  conversation  strayed  into 
I)oUtics,  and  then  Mr.  Grey,  an  eager  politician,  would  throw 
back  his  head,  and  talk  with  more  sparkle  and  rapidity,  flash- 
ing occasionally  into  grim  humor  which  seemed  to  throw  light 
on  the  innate  strength  and  pugnacity  of  the  peasant  and  Puri- 
tan breed  from  which  he  sprung.  Nothing  could  be  more  im- 
like  the  inspired  philosopher,  the  mystic  surrounded  by  an 
adoring  school,  whom  Eobert  had  been  picturing  to  himself  in 
his  walk  up  to  the  house,  through  the  soft  May  twilight. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  tutor  had  learned  to  take  much 
kindly  notice  of  the  ardent  and  yet  modest  exhibitioner,  in 
whose  future  it  was  impossible  not  to  feel  a  sympathetic  interest. 

'*You  will  always  find  us  on  Sunday  afternoons,  before 
chapel,"  he  said  to  him  one  day  as  they  parted  after  watching 
a  football  match  in  the  damp  mists  of  the  park,  and  the  boy's 
flush  of  pleasure  showed  how  much  he  valued  the  permission. 

For  three  years  those  Sunday  half  hours  were  the  great 
charm  of  Robert  Elsmere's  life.  When  he  came  to  look  back 
upon  them,  he  could  remember  nothing  very  definite.  A  few 
interesting  scraps  of  talk  about  books;  a  good  deal  of  talk 
about  politics,  showing  in  the  tutor  a  hving  interest  in  the 
needs  and  training  of  that  broadening  democracy  on  which  the 
future  of  England  rests ;  a  few  graphic  sayings  about  individu- 
als ;  above  all,  a  constant  readiness  on  the  host's  part  to  hsten, 
to  sit  quiet,  with  the  slight  unconscious  look  of  fatigue  which 
was  so  eloquent  of  a  strenuous  intellectual  life,  taking  kindly 
heed  of  anything  that  sincerity,  even  a  stupid  awkward  sin- 
cerity, had  got  to  say— these  were  the  sort  of  impressions  they 
had  left  behind  them,  re-enforced  always,  indeed,  by  the  one 
continuous  impression  of  a  great  soul  speaking  with  difficulty 
and  labor,  but  still  clearly,  still  effectually,  through  an  unblem- 
ished series  of  noble  acts  and  efforts. 

Term  after  term  passed  away.  Mrs.  Elsmere  became  more 
and  more  proud  of  her  boy,  and  more  and  more  assured  that 
her  years  of  intelligent  devotion  to  him  had  won  her  his  entire 
love  and  confidence,  ''so  long  as  they  both  should  Uve;"  she 
came  up  to  see  him  once  or  twice,  making  Langham  almost 
flee  the  university  because  she  would  be  grateful  to  him  in 
public,  and  attending  the  boat-races  in  festive  attire  'to  which 


she  had  devoted  her  most  anxious  attention  for  Eobert's  sake, 
and  which  made  her,  dear,  good,  impracticable  soul,  the  obn 
served  of  all  observers.  When  she  came  she  and  Kobert 
talked  all  day,  so  far  as  lectures  allowed,  and  most  of  tho 
night,  after  their  own  eager,  improvident  fashion;  and  sh« 
soon  gathered,  with  that  solemn,  half- tragic  sense  of  change 
which  besets  a  mother's  heart  at  such  a  moment,  that  there 
were  many  new  forces  at  work  in  her  boy's  mind,  deep  under- 
currents  of  feeling,  stiiTed  in  him  by  the  Oxford  influencesL 
which  must  before  long  rise  powerfully  to  the  surface. 

He  was  passing  from  a  bright  buoyant  lad  into  k  man,  and  h 
man  of  ardor  and  conviction.  And  the  chief  instrument  in  the 
transformation  was  Mr.  Grey. 

Elsmere  got  his  first  in  Moderations  easily.  But  the  Pinal 
Schools  were  a  different  matter.  In  the  LrsL  days  of  his  re- 
turn to  Oxford,  in  the  October  of  his  third  year,  while  he  was 
still  making  up  his  lecture  hst,  and  takiug  a  general  oversight 
of  the  work  demanded  from  him,  bef  jre  plunging  definitely 
into  it,  he  was  oppressed  with  a  s^nse  ihat  the  two  years  lying 
before  him  constituted  a  problem  vyhich  would  be  harder  to 
solve  than  any  which  had  yet  been  ^et  him.  It  seemed  to  him 
in  a  moment  which  was  one  of  some  slackness  and  reaction, 
that  he  had  been  growing  too  fast.  He  had  been  making 
friends,  besides,  in  far  too  many  camps,  and  the  thought,  half 
attractive,  half  repellent,  of  all  those  midnight  discussions  over 
smoldering  fires,  which  Oxfoid  was  preparing  for  him,  those 
fascinating  moments  of  intellectual  fence  with  minds  as  eager 
and  as  crude  as  his  own,  aad  of  all  the  delightful  dipping  into 
the  very  latest  Uterature,  «»7^hich  such  moments  encouraged  and 
involved,  seemed  to  comvey  a  sort  of  warning  to  the  boy's  will 
that  it  was  not  equal  to  the  situation.  He  was  neither  dull 
enough  nor  great  enough  for  a  striking  Oxford  success.  How 
was  he  to  prevent  himself  from  attempting  impossibihties  and 
achieving  a  final  mediocrity?  He  felt  a  dismal  certainty  that 
he  should  never  be  able  to  control  the  strayings  of  will  and 
curiosity,  now  into  this  path,  now  into  that;  and  a  still 
stronger  and  genuine  certainty  that  it  is  not  by  such  digres- 
sion that  a  man  gets  up  the  Ethics  or  the  Annals. 

Langham  watched  him  with  a  half  irritable  attention.  In 
spite  of  the  paralysis  of  all  natural  ambitions  in  himself,  he  was 
illogically  keen  that  Elsmere  should  win  the  distinctions  of  the 
'  place.   He,  the  most  laborious,  the  most  diainterested  of  sohfi" 


74 


BOBERT  ELSMERE. 


ars,  turned  himself  almost  into  a  crammer  for  Elsmere's  bene* 
fit.  He  abused  the  lad's  multifarious  reading,  declared  it  was 
no  better  than  dram-drinking,  and  even  preached  to  him  an 
ingenious  variety  of  mechanical  aids  to  memory  and  short 
cuts  to  knowledge,  till  Robert  would  turn  round  upon  him  with 
some  triumphant  retort  drawn  from  his  own  utterances  at 
some  sincerer  and  less  discreet  moment.  In  vain.  Langham 
felt  a  dismal  certainty  befere  many  weeks  were  over  that  Els- 
mere  would  miss  his  first  in  Greats.  He  was  too  curious,  too 
restless,  too  passionate  about  many  things.  Above  all  he  was 
beginning,  in  the  tutor's  opinion,  to  concern  himself  disas- 
trously early  with  that  most  overwhelming  and  most  brain- 
confusing  of  all  human  interests— the  interest  of  religion. 
Grey  had  made  him    earnest"  with  a  vengeance. 

Elsmere  was  now  attending  Grey's  philosophical  lectures, 
following  them  with  enthusiasm,  and  making  use  of  them,  as 
so  often  happens,  for  the  defence  and  fortification  of  views 
quite  other  than  his  teacher's.  The  whole  basis  of  Grey's 
thought  was  ardently  idealist  and  Hegelian.  He  had  broken 
with  the  popular  Christianity,  but  for  him,  God,  conscious- 
ness, duty,  were  the  only  realities.  None  of  the  various  forms 
of  materialist  thought  escaped  his  challenge;  no  genuine  utter- 
ance of  the  spiritual  life  of  man  but  was  sure  of  his  sympathy. 
It  was  known  that  after  having  prepared  himself  for  the  Chris- 
tian ministry  he  had  remained  a  layman  because  it  had  be- 
come impossible  to  him  to  accept  miracle ;  and  it  was  evident 
that  the  commoner  type  of  Churchmen  regarded  him  as  an  an- 
tagonist all  the  more  dangerous  because  he  was  so  sympathetic. 
But  the  negative  and  critical  side  of  him  was  what  in  reality 
told  least  upon  his  puy>ils.  He  was  reserved,  he  talked  with 
difficulty,  and  his  repect  "or  the  immaturity  of  the  young  lives 
near  him  was  complete,  ^o  that  what  he  sowed  others  often 
reaped,  or  to  quote  the  expression  of  a  well-known  rationalist 
about  him :  The  Tories  wore  always  carrying  off  his  honey  to 
their  hive."  Elsmere,  for  instance,  took  in  all  that  Grey  had 
to  give,  drank  in  all  the  ideal  fervor,  the  spiritual  enthusiasm 
of  the  great  tutor,  and  then,  as  Grey  himself  would  have  done 
some  twenty  years  earlier,  carried  his  religious  passion  so  stim- 
ulated into  the  service  of  the  great  positive  tradition  around 
him. 

And  at  that  particular  moment  in  Oxford  history,  the  passage 
from  philosophic  idealism  to  5lad  acquiescence  in  the  received 


BOBBKT  ELSMBEB.  '5 


Christian  system,  was  a  peculiarly  easy  one.  It  was  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world  that  a  young  man  of  Elsmere  s  tem- 
perament should  rally  to  the  Church.   The  place  was  passmg 
through  one  of  those  periodical  crises  of  reaction  agamst  an 
overdriven  rationalism,  which  show  themselves  with  tolerable 
regularity  in  any  great  center  of  inteUectiial  activity.   It  had 
begun  to  be  recognized  with  a  great  burst  of  enthusiasm  and 
astonishment,  that,  after  all,  Mill  and  Herbert  Spencer  had  not 
said  the  last  word  on  all  things  in  heaven  and  earth.   And  now 
there  was  exaggerated  recoil.   A  fresh  wave  of  religious  roman^ 
ticism  was  fast  gathering  strength;  the  spirit  of  Newman  had 
reappeared  in  the  place  which  Newman  had  loved  and  left; 
rehgion  was  becoming  once  more  popular  among  the  most 
trivial  souls,  and  a  deep  reality  among  a  large  proportion  of  the 

nobler  ones.  ,   ,  e  a 

With  this  movement  of  opinion  Eobert  had  very  soon  found 
himself  in  close  and  sympathetic  contact.   The  meager  im- 
pression left  upon  his  boyhood  by  the  somewhat  grotesque  sue 
cession  of  the  Harden  curates,  and  by  his  mother's  shafts  ot 
wit  at  their  expense,  was  soon  driven  out  of  him  by  the  stateh- 
aess  and  comely  beauty  of  the  Church  order  as  it  was  revealed 
to  him  at  Oxford.   The  religious  air,  the  solemn  beauty  of  the 
place  itself,  its  innumerable  associations  with  an  organized  and 
venerable  faith,  the  great  public  functions  and  expressions  of 
that  faith,  possessed  the  boy's  imagination  more  and  more.  As 
he  sat  in  the  under-graduates'  gallery  at  St.  Mary's  on  the  Sun- 
days, when  the  great  High  Church  preacher  of  the  moment  oc- 
cupied the  pulpit,  and  looked  down  on  the  crowded  bmlding, 
full  of  grave,  black-gowned  figures,  and  framed  in  one  continu- 
ous belt  of  closely  packed  boyish  faces;  as  he  listened  to  the 
preacher's  vibrating  voice,  rising  and  falling  with  the  orator  s 
instinct  for  musical  effect;  or  as  he  stood  up  with  the  great 
surrounding  body  of  under-graduates  to  send  the  melody  ot 
some  Latin  hymn  rolUng  mto  the  far  recesses  of  the  choir,  the 
sight  and  the  experience  touched  his  inmost  feelmg,  and  satis- 
fied all  the  poetical  and  dramatic  mstincts  of  a  passionate  nature. 
The  system  behmd  the  sight  took  stronger  and  stronger  hold 
upon  him;  he  began  to  wish  ardently  and  continuously  to  be- 
come a  part  of  it,  to  cast  in  his  lot  definitely  with  it. 

One  May  evening  he  was  wandering  by  himself  along  the 
towing-path  which  skirts  the  upper  river,  a  prey  to  many 
,Ai0Ughts,  to  forebodings  about  the  schools  which  were  to  begnn 


76 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


in  three  weeks,  and  to  speculations  as  to  how  his  mother  w  aid 
take  the  news  of  the  second  class,  which  he  himself  felt  1  j  be 
inevitable.  Suddenly,  for  no  apparent  reason,  there  flashed 
into  his  mind  the  little  conversation  with  his  mother,  which 
had  taken  place  nearly  four  years  before,  in  the  garden  at 
Trinity.  He  remembered  the  antagonism  which  the  idea  of  a 
clerical  life  for  him  had  raised  in  both  of  them,  and  a  smile  at 
his  own  ignorance  and  his  mother's  prejudice  passed  over  his 
quick  young  face.  He  sat  down,  on  the  grassy  bank,  a  mass  of 
reeds  at  his  feet,  the  shadows  of  the  poplars  behind  him  lying 
across  the  still  river;  and  opposite,  the  wide  green  expanse  of 
the  great  town  meadow,  dotted  with  white  patches  of  geese  and 
herds  of  grazing  horses.  There,  with  a  sense  of  something 
solemn  and  critical  passing  over  him,  he  began  to  dream  out 
his  future  hfe. 

And  when  he  rose,  half  an  hour  afterward,  and  turned  his 
steps  homeward,  he  knew  witli  an  inward  tremor  of  heart  that 
the  next  great  step  of  the  way  was  practically  taken.  For  there 
by  the  ghding  river,  and  m  view  of  the  distant  Oxford  spires, 
which  his  fancy  took  to  witness  the  act,  he  had  vowed  himself 
in  prayer  and  self-abasement  to  the  ministry  of  the  Church. 

During  the  three  weeks  that  followed  he  made  some  frantic 
efforts  to  make  up  lost  ground.  He  had  not  been  idle  for  a  sin- 
gle day,  but  he  had  been  unwise,  an  intellectual  spendthrift, 
living  in  a  continuous  succession  of  enthusiasms,  and  now  at 
the  critical  moment  his  stock  of  nerve  and  energy  was  at  a  low 
ebb.  He  went  in  depressed  and  tii-ed,  his  friends  watching 
anxiously  for  the  result.  On  the  day  of  the  Logic  paper,  as  he 
emerged  into  the  Schools  quadrangle,  he  felt  his  arm  caught  by 
Mr.  G-rey. 

Come  with  me  for  a  walk,,Elsmere;  you  look  as  if  some  air 
would  do  you  good." 

Eobert  acquiesced,  and  the  two  men  turned  into  the  passage- 
way leading  out  on  to  Radchffe  Square. 

I  have  done  for  myself,  sir,-' said  the  youth,  with  a  sigh, 
haK  impatience,  half  depression.  ''It  seems  to  me  to-day 
that  I  had  neither  mind  nor  memory.  If  I  get  a  second  I 
shall  be  lucky." 

Oh,  you  will  get  your  second  whatever  happens,"  said  Mr. 
Grey,  quietly,  ''and  you  mustn't  be  too  much  cast  down  about 
it  if  you  don't  get  your  first." 
This  imphed  acceptance  of  his  partial  defeat  coming  from 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


atiother's  lips,  struck  the  excitable  Robert  like  a  lash.  It  was 
only  what  he  had  been  saying  to  himself,  but  in  the  most  pes- 
simist forecasts  we  make  of  ourselves,  there  is  always  an  un- 
der protest  of  hope.  - 

''I  have  been  wasting  my  time  here  lately,"  he  said,  hur- 
riedly raising  his  college  cap  from  his  brows  as  if  it  oppressed 
them,  and  pushing  his  hair  back  with  a  weary  restless  ges- 
ture. 

*'No,"  said  Mr.  Grey,  turning  his  kind,  frank  eyes  upon 
him.  As  far  as  general  training  goes,  you  have  not  wasted 
your  time  at  all.  There  are  many  clever  men  who  don't  get  a 
first  class,  and  yet  it  is  good  for  them  to  be  here— so  long  as 
they  are  not  loungers  and  idlers,  of  course.  And  you  have 
not  been  a  lounger;  you  have  been  headstrong,  and  a  httle 
over-confident,  perhaps  "—the  speaker's  smile  took  all  the  sting 
out  of  the  words— -"but  you  have  grown  into  a  man,  and  you 
are  fit  now  for  man's  work.  Don't  let  yourself  be  depressed, 
Elsmere.  You  will  do  better  in  life  than  you  have  done  in  ex- 
amination." 

The  young  man  was  deeply  touched.  This  tone  of  personal 
comment  and  admonition  was  very  rare  with  Mr.  Grey.  He 
felt  a  sudden  consciousness  of  a  shared  burden  which  was  in- 
finitely soothing,  and  though  he  made  no  answer,  his  face  lost 
something  of  its  harassed  look  as  the  two  walked  on  together 
down  Oriel  Street  and  into  Merton  Meadows. 

"Have  you  any  immediate  plans?"  said  Mr.  Grey,  as  they 
turned  into  the  Broad  Walk,  now  in  the  full  leafage  of  June, 
and  rustling  under  a  brisk  western  wind  blowing  from  the 
river. 

"No;  at  least  I  suppose  it  will  be  no  good  my  trying  for  a 
fellowship.  But  I  meant  to  tell  you,  sir,  of  one  thing— I  have 
made  up  my  mind  to  take  Orders." 

"You  have?  When?" 

"Quite  lately.  So  that  fixes  me,  I  suppose,  to  come  back 
for  divinity  lectures  in  the  autumn." 

Mr.  Grey  said  nothing  for  awhile,  and  they  strolled  in  and 
out  of  the  great  shadows  thrown  by  the  elms  across  their  path. 

"You  feel  no  difficulties  in  the  way?"  he  asked  at  last,  with 
a  certain  brusqueness  of  manner. 

"No,"  said  Robert,  eagerly.  "I  never  had  any.  Per- 
haps," he  added,  with  a  sudden  humility,  it  is  because  I  have 
never  gone  deep  enough,    What  I  believe  might  have  been 


78 


EOBEET  ELSMERE, 


worth  more  if  I  had  had  more  struggle ;  but  it  has  all  seemed 
so  plain." 

The  young  voice  speaking  with  hesitation  and  reserve,  and 
yet  with  a  deep  inner  conviction,  was  pleasant  to  hear.  Mr. 
Grey  turned  toward  it,  and  the  great  eyes  under  the  furrowed 
brow  had  a  pecuUar  gentleness  of  expression. 

*'You  will  probably  be  very  happy  in  the  life,"  he  said. 
"  The  Church  wants  men  of  your  sort." 

But  through  all  the  sympathy  of  the  tone  Robert  was  con^ 
scious  of  a  veil  between  them.  He  knew,  of  course,  pretty 
much  what  it  was,  and  with  a  sudden  impulse  he  felt  that  he 
would  have  given  words  to  break  through  it  and  talk  frankly 
with  this  man  whom  he  revered  beyond  all  others,  wide  as  was 
the  intellectual  difference  between  them.  But  the  tutor's  reti- 
cence and  the  younger  man's  respect  prevented  it. 

When  the  unlucky  second  class  was  actually  proclaimed  to 
the  world,  Langham  took  it  to  heart  perhaps  more  than  either 
Elsmere  or  his  mother.  No  one  knew  better  than  he  what 
Elsmere's  gifts  were.  It  was  absurd  that  he  should  not  have 
made  more  of  them  in  sight  of  the  pubUc.  Le  clericalisme 
viola  Vennemi  r  was  about  the  gist  of  Langham's  mood  during 
the  days  that  followed  on  the  class  hst. 

Elsmere,  however,  did  not  divulge  his  intention  of  taking  | 
Orders  to  him  till  ten  days  afterward,  when  he  had  carried  off  | 
Langham  to  stay  at  Harden,  and  he  and  his  old  tutor  were 
smoking  in  his  mother  s  little  garden  one  moonhghted  night. 
I  When  he  had  finished  his  statement  Langham  stood  still  a  mo- 
ment watching  the  wreaths  of  smoke  as  they  curled  and  van- 
ished.  The  curious  interest  in  Elsmere's  career,  which  during 
a  certain  number  of  months  had  made  him  almost  practical, 
almost  energetic,  had  disappeared.   He  was  his  own  languid, 
paradoxical  self. 

''Well,  after  all,"  he  said  at  last,  very  slowly,  ''the  diffi- 
culty lies  in  preaching  anything.  One  may  as  well  preach  a 
respectable  mythology  as  anything  else." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  a  mythology  ?"  cried  Robert,  hotly. 

"Simply  ideas,  or  experiences,  personified,"  said  Langham, 
puffing  away.    "I  take  it  they  are  the  subject-matter  of  all  - 
theologies." 

I  don't  understand  you,"  said  Robert,  flushing.  "To  the 
Christian,  facts  have  been  the  medium  by  which  ideas  the 
yrprld  could  not  otherwise  have  come  at  have  been  communis 


EOBEBT  ELSMERB, 


10 


cated  to  man.  Christian  theology  is  a  system  of  ideas  indeed, 
but  of  ideas  realized,  made  manifest  in  facts." 

Langham  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  undecided;  then  that 
suppressed  irritation  we  have  already  spoken  of  broke  through. 
How  do  you  know  they  are  facts  ?"  he  said,  dryly. 

The  younger  man  took  up  the  challenge  with  all  his  natural 
eagerness,  and  the  conversation  resolved  itself  into  a  discussion 
of  Christian  evidences.  Or  rather  Eobert  held  forth,  and  Lang- 
ham  kept  him  going  by  an  occasional  remark  which  acted  like 
the  prick  of  a  spur.  The  tutor's  psychological  curiosity  was 
soon  satisfied.  He  declared  to  himself  that  the  intellect  had 
precious  little  to  do  with  Elsmere's  Christianity.  He  had  got 
hold  of  all  the  stock  apologetic  arguments,  and  used  them,  his 
companion  admitted,  with  ability  and  ingenuity.  But  they 
were  merely  the  outworks  of  the  citadel.  The  inmost  fortress 
was  held  by  something  wholly  distinct  from  intellectug,l  con- 
viction—by moral  passion,  by  love,  by  feeling,  by  that  mysti- 
cism,  in  short,  which  no  healthy  youth  should  be  without. 

He  imagines  he  has  satisfied  his  intellect,"  was  the  inward 
comment  of  one  of  the  most  melancholy  of  skeptics,  ^*and  he 
has  never  so  much  as  exerted  it.  What  a  brute  I  am  to  pro- 
test!" 

And  suddenly  Langham  threw  up  the  sponge.  He  held  out 
his  hand  to  his  companion,  a  momentary  gleam  of  tenderness 
in  his  black  eyes,  such  as  on  one  or  two  critical  occasions  be- 
fore had  disarmed  the  impetuous  Elsmere. 

*'No  use  to  discuss  it  further.  You  have  a  strong  case,  of 
course,  and  you  have  put  it  well.  Only,  when  you  are  pegging 
away  at  reforming  and  enlightening  the  world,  don't  trample 
too  much  on  the  people  who  have  more  than  enough  to  do  to 
enlighten  themselves." 

As  to  Mrs.  Elsmere,  in  this  new  turn  of  her  son's  fortunes, 
she  realized  with  humorous  distinctness  that  for  some  years 
past  Eobert  had  been  educating  her  as  well  as  himself.  Her 
old  rebellious  sense  of  something  inheritently  absurd  in  the 
clerical  status  had  been  gradually  slain  in  her  by  her  long  con- 
tact through  him  with  the  finer  and  more  imposing  aspects  of 
church  life.  She  was  still  on  light  skirmishing  terms  with  the 
Harden  curates,  and  at  times  she  would  flame  out  into  the 
wildest,  wittiest  threats  and  gibes,  for  the  momentary  satis- 
faction of  her  own  essentially  lay  instincts;  but  at  bottom  she 
knew  perfectly  well  that,  when  the  moment  came,  no  mother 


80 


ROBERT  SLSMEHiflL 


could  be  more  loyal,  more  easily  imposed  upon,  than  she  would 
be. 

'^I  suppose,  then,  Eobert,  we  shall  be  back  at  MureweU  be- 
fore very  long,"  she  said  to  him  one  morning,  abruptly,  study- 
ing him  the  while  out  of  her  small,  twinkling  eyes.  What  dig- 
nity there  was  already  in  the  young,  lightly-built  frame!  what 
frankness  and  character  in  the  irregular,  attractive  face  I 

Mother,"  cried  Elsmere,  indignantly,  ''what  do  you  take 
tne  for?"  Do  you  imagine  I  am  going  to  bury  myself  in  the 
country  ac  five  or  six-and-twenty,  take  six  hundred  a  year,  and 
nothing  to  do  for  it?  That  would  be  a  deserter's  act  indeed." 

Mrs.  Elsmere  shrugged  her  shoulders.  Oh,  I  supposed  you 
would  insist  on  killing  yourself,  to  begin  with.  To  most  peo- 
ple nowadays  that  seems  to  be  tlie  necessary  preliminary  of  a 
useful  career." 

Robert  laughed  and  kissed  her,  but  her  question  had  stirred 
him  so  much  that  he  sat  down  that  very  evening  to  write  ta 
his  cousin  Mowbray  Elsmere.  He  annoimced  to  him  that  he 
was  about  to  read  foi  Orders,  and  that  at  the  same  time  he  re- 
linquished all  claim  on  the  living  of  Murewell.  Do  what  you 
hke  with  it  when  it  falls  vacant,"  he  wrote,  '^without  refer- 
ence to  me.  My  views  are  strong  that  before  a  clergyman  in 
health  and  strength,  and  in  no  immediate  want  of  money,  al- 
lows himself  the  luxury  of  a  country  parish,  he  is  bound,  for 
some  years  at  any  rate,  to  meet  the  challenge  of  evil  and  pov- 
erty where  the  fight  is  hardest — among  our  English  town  pop* 
ulation." 

Sir  Mowbray  Elsmere  replied,  curtly,  in  a  day  or  two,  to  the 
effect  that  Robert's  letter  seemed  to  him  superfluous.  He,  Sir 
Mowbray,  had  nothing  to  do  with  his  cousin's  views.  When 
the  living  was  vacant— the  present  holder,  however,  was  un- 
common tough  and  did  not  mean  dying— he  should  follow  out 
the  instructions  of  his  father's  wiQ,  and  if  Eobert  did  not  want 
the  thing  he  could  say  so. 

In  the  autumn  Robert  and  his  mother  went  back  to  Oxford. 
The  following  spring  he  redeemed  his  Oxford  reputation  com- 
pletely by  winning  a  Fellowship  at  Merton  after  a  brilliant 
fight  with  some  of  the  best  men  of  his  year,  and  in  June  he 
was  ordained. 

In  the  summer  term  some  teaching  work  was  offered  him  at 
Merton,  and  by  Mr.  Grey's  advice  he  accepted  it,  thus  postpon- 
ing for  awhile  that  London  curacy  and  that  stout  grapple  with 


81 


human  need  at  its  sorest  for  which  his  soul  was  pining.  Stay 
here  a  year  or  two,"  Grey  said,  bluntly;  you  are  at  the  be- 
ginning of  your  best  learning  time,  and  you  are  not  one  of  the 
natures  who  can  do  without  books.  You  will  be  all  the  better 
worth  having  afterward,  and  there  is  no  lack  of  work  here  for 
a  man's  moral  energies." 

Langham  took  the  same  line,  and  Elsmere  submitted.  Three 
happy  and  fruitful  years  followed.  The  young  lecturer  de- 
veloped an  amazing  power  of  work.  That  concentration  which 
he  had  been  unable  to  achieve  for  himself  his  will  was  strong 
enough  to  maintain  when  it  was  a  question  of  meeting  the  de- 
mands of  a  college  class  in  which  he  was  deeply  interested.  He 
became  a  stimulating  and  successful  teacher,  and  one  of  the 
most  popular  of  men.  His  passionate  sense  of  responsibility 
toward  his  pupils  made  him  load  himself  with  burdens  to  whicL 
he  was  constantly  physically  unequal,  and  fill  the  vacation^j 
almost  as  full  as  the  terms.  And  as  he  was  comparatively  a 
man  of  means,  his  generous  impetuous  temper  was  able  to 
gratif yitself  in  ways  that  would  have  been  impossible  to  others. 
The  story  of  his  summer  reading-parties,  for  instance,  if  one 
could  have  unraveled  it,  would  have  been  found  to  be  one 
long  string  of  acts  of  kindness  toward  men  poorer  and  duller 
than  himself. 

At  the  same  time  he  formed  close  and  eager  relations  with 
the  heads  of  the  religious  party  in  Oxford.  His  mother's  Evan- 
gehcal  training  of  him  and  Mr.  Grey's  influence,  together,  per- 
haps, with  certain  drifts  of  temperament,  prevented  him  from 
becoming  a  High  Churchman.  The  sacramental,  ceremonial 
view  of  the  Church  never  took  hold  upon  him.  But  to  the 
EngHsh  Church  as  a  great  national  institution  for  the  promo- 
tion of  God's  work  on  earth  no  one  could  have  been  more 
deeply  loyal,  and  none  coming  close  to  him  could  mistake  the 
fervor  and  passion  of  his  Christian  feeling.  At  the  same  time 
he  did  not  know  what  rancor  or  bitterness  meant,  so  that  men 
of  all  shades  of  Christian  belief  reckoned  a  friend  in  him,  and 
he  went  through  life  surrounded  by  an  unusual,  perhaps  a  dan- 
gerous amount  of  liking  and  affection.  He  threw  himself 
ardently  into  the  charitable  work  of  Oxford,  now  helping  a 
High  Church  vicar,  and  now  toiling  with  Grey  and  one  or  two 
other  Liberal  fellows,  at  the  maintenance  of  a  coffee-palace  and 
lecture-room  just  started  by  them  in  one  of  the  suburbs;  while 
in  the  second  year  of  his  lectureship  the  success  of  some  first 


82 


BOBEBT  ELSMEEE. 


attempts  at  preaching  fixed  the  attention  of  the  religious  lead- 
ers upon  him  as  upon  a  man  certain  to  make  his  mark. 

So  the  three  years  passed— years  not,  perhaps,  of  great  in- 
tellectual advance,  for  other  forces  in  him  than  those  of  the 
intellect  were  mainly  to  the  fore,  but  years  certainly  of  contin- 
uous growth  in  character  and  moral  experience.  And  at  the 
end  of  them  Mowbray  Elsmere  made  his  offer,  and  it  was  ac- 
cepted. 

The  secret  of  it,  of  course,  was  overwork.  Mrs.  Elsmere, 
from  the  little  house  in  Meiion  Street,  where  she  had  estab- 
lished herself,  had  watched  her  boy's  meteoric  career  through 
these  crowded  months  with  very  frequent  misgivings.  No  one 
knew  better  than  she  that  Eobert  was  constitutionally  not  of 
the  toughest  fiber,  and  she  realized  long  before  he  did  that  the 
Oxford  life  as  he  was  bent  on  leading  it  must  end  for  him  in 
premature  breakdown.  But,  as  always  happens,  neither  her 
remonstrances,  nor  Mr.  Grey's  common  sense,  nor  Langham's 
fidgety  protests  had  any  effect  on  the  young  enthusiast  to  whom 
self -slaughter  came  so  easy.  During  the  latter  half  of  his  third 
year  of  teaching  he  was  continually  being  sent  away  by  the 
doctors,  and  coming  back  only  to  break  down  again.  At  last, 
in  the  January  of  his  fourth  year,  the  collapse  became  so  de- 
cided that  he  consented,  bribed  by  the  prospect  of  the  Holy 
Land,  to  go  away  for  three  months  to  Egypt  and  the  East,  ac- 
companied by  his  mother  and  a  college  friend. 

Just  before  their  departure  news  reached  him  of  the  death  of 
the  rector  of  Murewell,  followed  by  a  formal  offer  of  the  hying 
from  Sir  Mowbray.  At  the  moment  when  the  letter  arrived 
he  was  feeling  desperately  tired  and  ill,  and  in  after-life  he 
never  forgot  the  haK-superstitious  thrill  and  deep  sense  of  de- 
pression with  which  be  received  it.  For  within  him  was  a 
slowly  emerging,  despairing  conviction  that  he  was  indeed 
physically  unequal  to  the  claims  of  his  Oxford  work,  and  if  so, 
still  more  unequal  to  grappling  with  the  hardest  pastoral  labor 
and  the  worst  forms  of  English  poverty.  And  the  coincidence 
of  the  Murewell  iacumbent's  death  struck  his  sensitive  mind  as 
a  divine  leading. 

But  it  was  a  painful  defeat.  He  took  the  letter  to  Grey,  and 
Grey  strongly  advised  him  to  accept. 

*'  You  overdrive  your  scruples,  Elsmere,"  said  the  Liberal 
tutor,  with  emphasis.  ''No  one  can  say  a  living  with  one 
thousand  two  hundred  souls,  and  no  curate,  is  a  sinecure.  As 


83 


for  hard  town  work,  it  is  absurd— you  couldn't  stand  it.  And 
after  all,  I  imagine,  there  are  some  souls  worth  saving  out  of 
the  towns." 

Elsmere  pointed  out  vindictively  that  family  livings  were  a 
corrupt  and  indefensible  institution.  Mr.  Grey  replied,  calmly, 
that  they  probably  were,  but  that  the  fact  did  not  affect,  so 
far  as  he  could  see,  Elsmere's  competence  to  fulfill  all  the  du- 
ties of  rector  of  Murewell. 

''After  all,  my  dear  fellow,''  he  said,  a  smile  breaking  over 
his  strong,  expressive  face,  ''  it  is  well  even  for  reformers  to  be 
sane." 

Mrs.  Elsmere  was  passive.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  fore- 
seen it  all  along.  She  was  miserable  about  his  health,  but  she 
too  had  a  moment  of  superstition,  and  would  not  urge  him. 
Murewell  was  no  name  of  happy  omen  to  her— she^  had  passed 
the  darkest  hours  of  her  hfe  there. 

In  the  end  Eobert  asked  for  delay,  which  was  grudgingly 
granted  him.  Then  he  and  his  mother  and  friend  fled  over  seas : 
he  feverishly  determined  to  get  well  and  cheat  the  fates.  But, 
after  a  halcyon  time  in  Palestine  and  Constantinople,  a  whiff  of 
poisoned  air  at  Cannes,  on  their  way  home,  acting  on  a  low 
constitutional  state,  settled  matters.  Robert  was  laid  up  for 
weeks  with  malarious  fever,  and  when  he  struggled  out  again 
into  the  hot  Riviera  sunshine  it  was  clear  to  himself  and  every- 
body else  that  he  must  do  what  he  could,  and  not  what  he 
would,  in  the  Christian  vineyard. 

"Mother,"  he  said  one  day,  suddenly  looking  up  at  her  as  she 
sat  near  him  working,    can  you  be  happy  at  Murewell  ? " 

There  was  a  wistfulness  in  the  long,  thin  face,  and  a  pathetic 
accent  of  surrender  in  the  voice,  which  hurt  the  mother's  heart. 

''I  can  be  happy  wherever  you  are,"  she  said,  laying  her 
brown,  nervous  hand  on  his  blanched  one. 

''Then  give  me  pen  and  paper  and  let  me  write  to  Mowbray. 
I  wonder  whether  the  place  has  changed  at  aU.  Heigh  ho! 
How  is  one  to  preach  to  people  who  has  stuffed  you  up  with 
gooseberries,  or  swung  you  on  gates,  or  Ufted  you  over  puddles 
to  save  your  petticoats?  I  wonder  what  has  become  of  that  boy 
whom  I  hit  in  the  eye  with  my  bow  and  arrow,  or  of  that  other 
lout  who  pummeled  me  into  the  middle  of  next  week  for  dis- 
turbing his  bird-trap?  By  the  way,  is  the  squire— is  Roger 
Wendover— living  at  the  Hall  now  ?" 

He  turned  to  his  mother  with  a  sudden  start  of  interest. 


84 


ROBERT  ELSMER12. 


*'  So  I  hear,"  said  Mrs.  Elsmere,  dryly.  He  won't  be  much 
good  to  you." 

He  sat  on  meditating  wliile  she  went  for  pen  and  paper.  He 
had  forgotten  the  squire  of  Murewell.  But  Roger  Wendover, 
the  famous  and  eccentric  owner  of  Murewell  Hall,  hermit  and 
scholar,  possessed  of  one  of  the  most  magnificent  libraries  in 
England,  and  author  of  books  which  had  carried  a  revolution- 
ary shock  into  the  heart  of  English  society,  was  not  a  figure  to 
be  overlooked  by  any  rector  of  Murewell,  least  of  all  by  one 
possessed  of  Robert's  culture  and  imagination. 

The  young  man  ransacked  his  memory  on  the  subject  with  a 
sudden  access  of  interest  in  his  new  home  that  was  to  be. 

Six  weeks  later  they  we^'e  in  England,  aud  Robert,  now  con- 
valescent, had  accepted  an  invitation  to  spend  a  month  in  Long 
Whindale  with  his  mother's  cousins,  the  Thomburghs,  who 
offered  him  quiet,  embracing  air.  He  was  to  enter  on  his 
duties  at  Miu*ewell  in  July,  the  bishop,  who  had  been  made 
aware  of  his  Oxford  reputation,  welcoming  the  new  recruit  to 
the  diocese  with  marked  warmth  of  manner. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

Agnes,  if  you  want  any  tea,  here  it  is,"  cried  Rose,  calling 
from  outside  through  the  dining-room  window;  **and  tell 
mamma. " 

It  was  the  first  of  June,  and  the  spell  of  warmth  in  which 
Robert  Elsmere  had  arrived  was  still  maintaining  itself.  An 
intelligent  foreigner  dropped  into  the  flower-sprinkled  valley 
might  have  beheved  that,  after  all,  England,  and  even  northern 
England,  had  a  summer.  Early  in  the  season  as  it  was,  the  sun 
was  already  drawing  the  color  out  of  the  hills ;  the  young  green, 
hardly  a  week  or  two  old,  was  darkening.  Except  the  oaks. 
They  were  brilliance  itself  against  the  luminous  gray-blue  sky. 
So  were  the  beeches,  their  young  downy  leaves  just  unpacked, 
tumbling  loosely  open  to  the  light.  But  the  larches  and  the 
birches  and  the  hawthorns  were  already  sobered  by  a  longer 
acquaintance  with  life  and  Phoebus. 

Rose  sat  fanning  herself  with  a  portentous  hat,  which  when 
in  its  proper  place  served  her,  apparently,  both  as  hat  and  as 
parasol.  She  seemed  to  have  been  running  races  with  a  fine 
colly,  who  lay  at  her  feet  panting,  but  studying  her  with  his 
bright  eyes,  and  evidently  ready  to  be  off  again  at  the  first  in- 
dication that  his  playmate  had  recovered  her  wind.  Chattie 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


85 


was  coming  lazily  over  the  lawn,  stretching  each  leg  behind  her 
as  she  walked,  tail  arched,  green  eyes  flaming  in  the^  sun,  a 
model  of  treacherous  beauty. 

^'Chattie,  you  fiend,  come  here!"  cried  Kose,  holding  out  a 
hand  to  her;  if  Miss  Barks  were  ever  pretty  she  must  have 
looked  like  you  at  this  moment." 

I  won't  have  Chattie  put  upon,"  said  Agnes,  establishing 
herself  at  the  other  side  of  the  little  tea^able;  she  has  done 
you  no  harm.  Come  to  me,  beastie.  I  won't  compare  you  to 
disagreeable  old  maids." 

The  cat  looked  from  one  sister  to  the  other,  blinking;  then 
with  a  sudden  magnificent  spring  leaped  on  to  Agnes's  lap  and 
eurled  herself  up  there. 

''Nothing  but  cupboard  love,"  said  Eose,  scornfully,  in  an- 
swer to  Agnes's  laugh ;  ' '  she  knows  you  will  give  her  bread  and 
butter  and  I  won't,  out  of  a  double  regard  for  my  skirts  and 
her  morals.  Oh,  dear  me  !  Miss  Barks  was  quite  seraphic  last 
night ;  she  never  made  a  single  remark  about  my  clothes,  and 
she  didn't  even  say  to  me,  as  she  generally  does,  with  an  air  of 
compassion,  that  she  '  quite  understands  how  hard  it  must  be 
to  keep  in  tune.'  " 

The  amusing  thing  was  Mrs.  Seaton  and  Mr.  Elsmere," 
said  Agnes.  '^I  just  love,  as  Mrs.  Thornburgh  says,  to  hear 
her  instructing  other  people  in  their  own  particular  trades. 
She  didn't  get  much  change  out  of  him." 

Rose  gave  Agnes  her  tea,  and  then,  bending  forward,  with 
one  hand  on  her  heart,  said,  in  a  stage  whisper,  with  a  dra- 
matic glance  round  the  garden:  My  heart  is  whole.  How  is 
yours  ?" 

^''Intact,''''  said  Agnes,  calmly,  **as  that  French  bric-a-brac 
man  in  the  Brompton  Eoad  used  to  say  of  his  pots.  But  he  is 
very  nice." 

Oh,  charming  !  But  when  my  destiny  arrives"— and  Rose, 
returning  to  her  tea,  swept  her  little  hand  with  a  tea-spoon  in 
it  eloquently  round— ''he  won't  have  his  hair  cut  close.  I 
must  have  luxuriant  locks,  and  I  will  take  no  excuse  !  Une 
chevelure  depoete,  the  eye  of  an  eagle,  the  mustache  of  a  hero, 
the  hand  of  a  Rubenstein,  and,  if  it  pleases  him,  the  temper  of 
a  fiend.  He  w^ll  be  odious,  insufllerable  for  all  the  world  be- 
sides, except  for  me;  and  for  me  he  will  be  heaven." 

She  threw  herself  back,  a  twinkle  in  her  bright  eye,  but  a 
little  flush  of  something  half  real  on_her  cbeek.__ 


86 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


"No  doubt,"  said  Agnes,  dryly.  **But  you  can't  wondet 
if  under  the  circumstances  I  don't  pine  for  a  brother-in-law. 
To  return  to  the  subject,  however,  Catherine  liked  him.  She 
said  so." 

**0h,  that  doesn't  coupt,"  replied  Hose,  discontentedly; 

Catherine  likes  everybody— of  a  certain  sort— and  everybody 
likes  Catherine." 

*'Does  that  mean.  Miss  Hasty,"  said  her  sister,  *'that  you 
have  made  up  your  mind  Catherine  will  never  marry  ?" 

'  *  Marry  !"  cried  Rose.  *  *  You  might  as  well  talk  of  marrying 
Westminster  Abbey." 

Agnes  looked  at  her  attentively.  Rose's  fun  had  a  decided 
lack  of  sweetness.  After  all,''  she  said,  demurely,  *^St. 
Elizabeth  married." 

*'Yes,  but  then  she  was  a  princess.  Reasons  of  state.  If 
Catherine  were  *  her  royal  highness'  it  would  be  her  duty  to 
marry,  which  would  just  make  all  the  difference.  Duty !  I 
hate  the  word." 

And  Rose  took  up  a  fir  cone  lying  near  and  threw  it  at  the 
nose  of  the  colly,  who  made  a  jump  at  it,  and  then  resumed 
an  attitude  of  blinking  and  dignified  protest  against  his  mis- 
tress's follies. 

Agnes  again  studied  her  sister.  What's  the  master  with 
you.  Rose  ?" 

**The  usual  thing,  my  dear,"  replied  Rose,  cmiily,  **only 
more  so.  I  had  a  letter  this  morning  from  Carry  Ford — the 
daughter,  you  know,  of  those  nice  people  I  stayed  in  Manches- 
ter with  last  year.  Well,  she  wants  me  to  go  and  stay  the 
winter  with  them  and  study  under  a  first-rate  man,  Franzen, 
who  is  to  be  in  Manchester  two  days  a  week  during  the 
winter.  I  haven't  said  a  word  about  it — what's  the  use.  I 
know  all  Catherine's  arguments  by  heart.  Manchester  is  not 
Whindgde,  and  papa  wished  us  to  live  in  Whindale ;  I  am  not 
somebody  else  and  needn't  earn  my  bread;  and  art  is  not  re- 
ligion; and — " 

Wheels  !"  exclaimed  Agnes.  Catherine,  I  suppose,  home 
from  Whinborough." 

Rose  got  up  and  peered  through  the  rhododendron  bushes  at 
the  top  of  the  wall  which  shut  them  off  from  tfie  road. 

Catherine,  and  an  unknown.  Catherine  driving  at  a  foot's 
pace,  and  the  unknown  walking  beside  her.   Oh,  I  see,  of 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


87 


eourse— Mr.  Elsmere.  He  will  come  in  to  tea,  so  I'll  go  for  a 
cup.   It  is  his  duty  to  call  on  us  to-day." 

When  Rose  came  back  in  the  wake  of  her  mother,  Catherine 
and  Robert  Elsmere  were  coming  up  the  drive.  Something 
had  given  Catherine  more  color  than  usual,  and  as  Mrs.  Ley- 
burn  shook  hands  with  the  young  clergyman  her  mother's  eyes 
turned  approvingly  to  her  eldest  daughter.  After  all,  she  is 
as  handsome  as  Rose,"  she  said  to  herself—''  though  it  is  quite 
a  different  style." 

Rose,  who  was  always  tea-maker,  dispensed  her  wares;  Cath- 
erine took  her  favorite  low  seat  beside  her  mother,  clasping 
Mrs.  Leyburn's  thin  mittened  hand  awhile  tenderly  in  her  own. 
Robert  and  Agnes  set  up  a  lively  gossip  on  the  subject  of  the 
Thornburghs'  guests,  in  which  Rose  joined,  while  Catherine 
looked  smiling  on.  She  seemed  apart  from  the  rest,  Robert 
thought;  not,  clearly,  by  her  own  will,  but  by  virtue  of  a  differ- 
ence of  temperament  which  could  not  but  make  itself  felt. 
Yet  once  as  Rose  passed  her,  Robert  saw  her  stretch  out  her 
hand  and  touch  her  sister  caressingly,  with  a  bright  upward 
look  and  smile  as  though  she  would  say:  ''Is  all  well  ?  have 
you  had  a  good  time  this  afternoon,  Roschen  ?"  Clearly  the 
strong  contemplative  nature  was  not  strong  enough  to  dispense 
with  any  of  the  little  wants  and  cravings  of  human  affection. 
Compared  to  the  main  impression  she  was  making  on  him,  her 
suppliant  attitude  at  her  mother's  feet  and  her  caress  of  her 
sister  were  Uke  flowers  breaking  through  the  stern  March  soil 
and  changing  the  whole  spirit  of  the  fields. 

Presently  he  said  something  of  Oxford,  and  mentioned  Mer- 
ton.   Instantly  Mrs.  Leyburn  fell  upon  him.   Had  he  ever  seen 

g  ^  who  had  been  a  Fellow  there,  and  Rose's  godfather? 

"I  don't  acknowledge  him,"  said  Ro^e,  pouting.  "Other 
people's  godfathers  give  them  mugs  and  corals.   Mine  never 
gave  me  anything  but  a  Concordance." 
Robert  laughed,  and  proved  to  their  satisfaction  that  Mr. 

S  had  been  extinct  before  his  day.   But  could  they  ask  him 

any  other  question  ?  Mrs.  Leyburn  became  quite  animated, 
and,  diving  into  her  memory,  produced  a  number  of  fragmen- 
tary reminiscences  of  her  husband's  queen's  friends,  asking  him 
for  information  about  each  and  all  of  them.  The  young  man 
disentangled  all  her  questions,  racked  his  brains  to  answer, 
and  showed  all  through  a  quick  friendliness,  a  charming  defer- 
tmcie  ^  of  youth  to  ag^,  which  confirmed  the  liking  of  the 


88 


ROBERT  ELSMERB. 


whole  party  for  him.  Then  the  mention  of  an  associate  oi 
Richard  Leybum's  youth,  who  had  been  one  of  the  Tractarian 
leaders,  led  him  into  talk  of  Oxford  changes  and  the  influences 
of  the  present.  He  drew  for  them  the  famous  High  Church 
preacher  of  the  moment,  described  the  great  spectacle  of  his 
Bampton  lectures,  by  which  Oxford  had  been  recently  thrilled, 
and  gave  a  dramatic  account  of  a  sermon  on  evolution  preached 
by  the  hermit-veteran  Pusey,  as  though  by  another  Ehas  re- 
turning to  the  world  to  dehver  a  last  warning  message  to  men. 
Catherine  listened  absorbed,  her  deep  eyes  fixed  upon  him. 
And  though  all  he  said  was  pitched  in  a  vivacious  narrative 
key  and  addressed  as  much  to  the  others  as  to  her,  inv/ardly  it 
seemed  to  him  that  his  one  object  all  through  was  to  touch  and 
keep  her  attention. 

Then,  in  answer  to  inquiries  about  himself,  he  fell  to  de- 
scribing St.  Anselm's  with  enthusiasm — its  growth,  its  provost, 
its  effectiveness  as  a  great  educational  machine,  the  impression 
it  had  made  on  Oxford  and  the  country.  This  led  him  natu- 
rally to  talk  of  Mr.  Grey,  then,  next  to  the  provost,  the  most 
prominent  figure  in  the  college  ;  and  once  embarked  on  this 
theme  he  became  more  eloquent  and  interesting  than  ever. 
The  circle  of  women  listened  to  him  as  to  a  voice  from  the 
large  world.  He  made  them  feel  the  beat  of  the  great  currents 
of  English  life  and  thought;  he  seemed  to  bring  the  stir  and 
rush  of  our  central  English  society  into  the  deep  quiet  of  their 
valley.  Even  the  bright-haired  Rose,  idly  swinging  her  pretty 
foot,  with  a  head  full  of  dreams  and  discontent,  was  beguiled, 
and  for  the  moment  seemed  to  lose  her  restless  self  in  listening. 

He  told  an  exciting  story  of  a  bad  election  riot  in  Oxford 
which  had  been  quelled  at  considerable  personal  risk  by  Mr. 
Grey,  who  had  gained'  his  influence  in  the  town  by  a  devotion 
of  years  to  the  policy  of  breaking  down,  as  far  as  possible,  the 
old  venomous  feud  between  city  and  university. 

When  he  paused  Mrs.  Leyburn  said,  vaguely  :  "  Did  you  say 
he  was  a  canon  of  somewhere  ?" 

*'0h,  no,"  said  Robert,  smiling,  ^'  he  is  not  a  clergyman." 

*'But  you  said  he  preached,"  said  Agnes. 

*'Yes — but  lay  sermons— addresses.  He  is  not  one  of  us 
even,  according  to  your  standard  and  mine." 

A  Nonconformist  ?"  sighed  Mrs.  Leyburn.  ''Oh,  I  know 
they  have  let  in  everybody  now." 

Well,  if  you  Hke,"  said  Robert.      What  I  meant  was  that 


BOBERT  ELSMEEE, 


89 


his  opinions  are  not  orthodox.  He  could  not  be  a  clergyman, 
but  he  is  one  of  the  noblest  of  men !" 

He  spoke  with  affectionate  warmth.  Then  suddenly  Cath- 
erine's eyes  met  his,  and  he  felt  an  involuntary  start.  A  veil 
had  fallen  over  them;  her  sweet  moved  sympathy  was  gone; 
she  seemed  to  have  shrunk  into  herself. 

She  turned  to  Mrs.  Leyburn.  ''Mother,  do  you  know,  I 
have  all  sorts  of  messages  from  Aunt  Ellen"— and  in  an  under- 
voice  she  began  to  give  Mrs.  Leyburn  the  news  of  her  after- 
noon expedition. 

Eose  and  Agnes  soon  plunged  young  Elsmere  into  another 
stream  of  talk.  But  he  kept  his  feeling  of  perplexity.  His 
experience  of  other  women  seemed  to  give  him  nothing  to  go 
upon  with  regard  to  Miss  Leyburn. 

Presently  Catherine  got  up  and  drew  her  plain  little  black 
cape  round  her  again. 

My  dear  1"  remonstrated  Mrs.  Leyburn.  ''Where  are  you 
off  to  now  ?" 

"To  the  Backhouses,  mother,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice;  "I 
have  not  been  there  for  two  days.   I  must  go  this  evening." 

Mrs.  Leyburn  said  no  more.  Catherine's  "musts"  were 
never  disputed.  She  moved  toward  Elsmere  with  outstretched 
hand.    But  he  also  sprung  up. 

"I,  too,  must  be  going,"  he  said;  "I  have  paid  you  an  un- 
conscionable visit.  If  you  are  going  past  the  vicarage.  Miss 
Leyburn,  may  I  escort  you  so  far?" 

She  stood  quietly  waiting  while  he  made  his  farewells.  Ag- 
nes, whose  eye  fell  on  her  sister  during  the  pause,  was  struck 
with  a  passing  sense  of  something  out  of  the  common.  She 
could  hardly  have  defined  her  impression,  but  Catherine  seerped 
more  alive  to  the  outer  world,  more  hke  other  people,  less 
nun-like,  than  usual. 

When  they  had  left  the  garden  together,  as  they  had  come 
into  it,  and  Mrs.  Leyburn,  complaining  of  chilliness,  had  re- 
treated to  the  drawing-room.  Rose  laid  a  quick  hand  on  her 
sister's  arm. 

"You  say  Catherine  likes  him?  Ow!  what  is  a  great  deal 
more  certain  is  that  he  likes  her." 

"Well,"  said  Agnes,  calmly—  "  well,  I  await  your  remarks." 

"Poor  fellow!"  said  Rose,  grimly,  and  removed  her  hand. 

Meanwhile  Elsmere  and  Catherine  walked  along  the  valley 
road  toward  the  vicarage.   He  thought,  uneasily,  she  was  a 


00 


ROBERT  ELSKERE. 


little  more  reserved  with  him  than  she  had  been  in  those 
pleasant  moments  after  he  had  overtaken  her  in  the  pony- 
carriage  ;  but  still  she  was  always  kind,  always  courteous.  And 
what  a  white  hand  it  was,  hanging  ungloved  against  her  dress ! 
what  a  beautiful  dignity  and  freedom,  as  of  mountain  winds 
and  mountain  streams,  in  every  movement ! 

You  are  boimd  for  High  GhyU?"  he  said  to  her  as  they 
neared  the  vicarage  gate.  ^*Is  it  not  a  long  way  for  you? 
You  have  been  at  a  meeting  already,  your  sister  said,  and 
teaching  this  morning !" 

He  looked  down  on  her  with  a  charming  diffidence  as  though 
aware  that  their  acquaintance  was  very  young,  and  yet  with  a 
warm  eagerness  of  feeling  piercing  through.  As  she  paused 
under  his  eye  the  slightest  flush  rose  to  Catherine's  cheek. 
Then  she  looked  up  with  a  smile.  It  was  amusing  to  be  taken 
care  of  by  this  tall  stranger. 

'*It  is  most  imfeminine,  I  am  afraid,''  she  said,  ^*but  I 
couldn't  be  tired  if  I  tried." 

Elsmere  grasped  her  hand. 
You  make  me  feel  myself  ,  more  than  ever  a  shocking  ex- 
ample," he  said,  letting  it  go  with  a  httle  sigh.  The  smart  of 
his  own  renunciation  was  stiU  keen  in  him.  She  lingered  a 
moment,  could  find  nothing  to  say,  threw  him  a  look  all  shy 
sympathy  and  lovely  pity,  and  was  gone. 

In  the  evening  Robert  got  an  explanation  of  that  sudden 
stiffening  in  his  auditor  of  the  afternoon,  which  had  perplexed 
him.  He  and  the  vicar  were  sitting  smoking  in  the  study 
after  dinner,  and  the  ingenious  young  man  managed  to  shift 
the  conversation  on  to  the  Ley  bums,  as  he  had  managed  to  shift 
it  once  or  twice  before  that  day,  flattering  himself,  of  course,  on 
each  occasion  that  his  maneuvers  were  beyond  detection.  The 
vicar,  good  soul,  by  virtue  of  his  original  discovery,  detected 
them  all,  and  with  a  sense  of  appropriation  in  the  matter,  not 
at  all  unmixed  with  a  sense  of  triumph  over  Mrs.  T.,  kept  the 
baU  rolling  merrily. 

**Miss  Leyburn  seems  to  have  very  strong  religious  views," 
said  Robert,  a  propos  of  some  remark  of  the  vicar's  as  to  the 
assistance  she  was  to  him  in  the  school. 

Ah,  she  is  her  father's  daughter,"  said  the  vicar,  genially. 
He  had  his  oldest  coat  on,  his  favorite  pipe  between  his  hps, 
and  a  bit  of  domestic  carpentering  on  his  knee  at  which  he 
\ias  fiddling  away,  and.  being  perfectly  happy,  was  also  per- 


ROBERT  ELSMERB. 


9L 


fectly  amiable.      Richard  Ley  burn  was  a  fanatic— as  mild  as 
you  please,  but  immovable." 
What  line?" 

''Evangelical,  with  a  dash  of  Quakerism.  He  lent  me 
*  Madame  Guyon's  Life'  once  to  read.  I  didn't  appreciate 
it.  I  told  him  that  for  all  her  religion  she  seemed  to  me  to 
have  a  deal  of  the  vixen  in  her.  He  could  hardly  get  over  it; 
it  nearly  broke  our  friendship.  But  I  suppose  he  was  very  like 
her,  except  that,  in  my  opinion,  his  nature  was  sweeter.  He 
was  a  fatalist— saw  leadings  of  Providence  in  every  httle  thing. 
And  such  a  dreamer !  When  he  came  to  live  up  here  just  be- 
fore his  death,  and  all  his  active  life  was  taken  off  him,  I  be- 
lieve half  his  time  he  was  seeing  visions.  He  used  to  wander 
over  the  fells  and  meet  you  with  a  start,  as  though  you  be- 
longed to  another  world  than  the  one  he  was  walking  in." 
And  his  eldest  daughter  was  much  with  him?" 

**The  apple  of  his  eye.  She  understood  him.  He  could 
talk  his  soul  out  to  her.  The  others,  of  course,  were  children ; 
and  his  wife— well,  his  wife  was  just  what  you  see  her  now, 
poor  thing.  He  must  have  married  her  when  she  was  very 
young  and  very  pretty.  She  was  a  squire's  daughter  some- 
where near  the  school  of  which  he  was  master— a  good  family, 
I  believe— she'll  tell  you  so,  in  a  lady-like  way.  He  was  always 
fidgety  about  her  health.  He  loved  her,  I  suppose,  or  had 
loved  her.  But  it  was  Catherine  who  had  his  mind;  Catherine 
who  was  his  friend.  She  adored  him.  I  believe  there  was  al- 
ways a  sort  of  pity  in  her  heart  for  him,  too.  But  at  any  rate 
he  made  her  and  trained  her.  He  poured  all  his  ideas  and 
convictions  into  her." 
Which  were  strong?" 

Uncommonly.  For  all  his  gentle,  ethereal  look,  you  could 
heither  bend  nor  break  him.  I  don't  believe  anybody  but 
Richard  Ley  burn  could  have  gone  through  Oxford  at  the  height 
of  the  Oxford  Movement,  and,  so  to  speak,  have  known  noth- 
ing about  it,  while  living  all  the  time  for  religion.  He  had  a 
great  deal  in  common  with  the  Quakers,  as  I  said;  a  great  deal 
in  common  with  the  Wesleyans ;  but  he  was  very  loyal  to  the 
church,  all  the  same.  He  regarded  it  as  the  golden  mean. 
George  Herbert  was  his  favorite  poet.  He  used  to  carry  his 
poems  about  with  him  on  the  mountains,  and  an  expurgated 
''Christian  Year  "—the  only  thing  he  ever  took  from  the  High 
Churchman— which  he  had  gtade  for  himself,  and  which  he 


92 


BOBERT  ELSMERE. 


and  Catherine  knew  by  heart.  In  some  ways  he  was  not  a 
bigot  at  all.  He  would  have  had  the  chiu^ch  make  peace  with 
the  dissenters ;  he  was  all  for  upsetting  tests  so  far  as  uncon- 
formity was  concerned.  But  he  drew  the  most  rigid  line  be- 
tween belief  and  imbelief.  He  would  not  have  dined  at  the 
same  table  with  a  Unitarian  if  he  could  have  helped  it.  I  re- 
member a  furious  article  of  his  in  the  '  Record '  against  admit- 
ting Unitarians  to  the  universities  or  allowing  them  to  sit  in 
Parhament.  '  England  is  a  Christian  state,'  he  said;  'they  ai^e 
not  Christians;  they  have  no  right  in  her  except  on  sufeance.' 
Well,  I  suppose  he  was  about  right,"  said  the  vicar,  with  a 
sigh.    "We  are  all  so  half-hearted  nowadays." 

"Not  he,"  cried  Eobert,  hotly.  "Who  are  we  that  because 
a  man  differs  from  us  in  opinion  we  are  to  shut  him  out  from 
the  education  of  pohtical  and  civil  duty?  But  never  mind, 
Cousin  William.  Goon." 

"There's  no  more  that  I  remember,  except  that  of  course 
Catherine  took  all  these  ideas  from  him.  He  wouldn't  let  his 
children  know  any  unbehever,  however  apparently  worthy 
and  good.  He  impressed  it  upon  them  as  their  special  sacred 
duty,  in  a  time  of  wicked  enmity  to  religion,  to  cherish  the 
faith  and  the  whole  faith.  He  wished  his  ^vife  and  daughters 
to  Uve  on  here  after  his  death  that  they  might  be  less  in  danger 
spiritually  than  in  the  big  world,  and  that  they  might  have 
more  opportunity  of  Hving  the  old-fashioned  Christian  life. 
There  was  also  some  mystical  idea,  I  think,  of  making  up 
through  his  children  for  the  godless  lives  of  their  forefathers. 
He  used  to  reproach  himself  for  having  in  his  prosperous  days 
neglected  his  family,  some  of  whom  he  might  have  helped  to 
raise." 

"Well,  but,"  said  Eobert,  "all  very  well  for  Miss  Ley  bum, 
but  I  don't  see  the  father  in  the  two  yorlnger  girls." 

"Ah,  there  is  Catherine's  difficulty,"  said  the  vicar,  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders.  "Poor  thing !  How  well  I  remember  her 
after  her  father's  death !  She  came  down  to  see  me  in  the  din- 
ing-room about  some  arrangement  for  the  funeral.  She  was 
only  sixteen,  so  pale  and  thin  with  nursing.  I  said  something 
about  the  comfort  she  had  been  to  her  father.  She  took  my 
hand  and  burst  into  tears.  'He  was  so  good!'  she  said;  'I 
loved  him  so!  Oh,  !Mr.  Thomburgh,  help  me  to  look  after  the 
others !'  And  that's  been  ^her  one  thought  since  then— that, 
next  to  following  the  narrow  road»" 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


93 


The  vicar  had  begun  to  speak  with  emotion,  as  generally- 
happened  to  him  whenever  he  was  beguiled  into  much  speech 
about  Catherine  Leyburn.  There  must  have  been  something 
great  somewhere  in  the  insignificant  elderly  man.  A  meaner 
soul  might  so  easily  have  been  jealous  of  this  girl  with  her  in- 
conveniently high  standards,  and  her  influence,  surpassing  his 
own,  in  his  own  domain. 

"I  should  like  to  know  the  secret  of  the  little  musician's  in- 
dependence," said  Robert,  musing.  There  might  be  no  tie  of 
blood  at  all  between  her  and  the  elder,  so  far  as  I  can  see." 

^'  Oh,  I  don't  know  that!  There's  more  than  you  think,  or 
Catherine  wouldn't  have  kept  her  hold  over  her  so  far  as  she 
has.  Generally  she  gets  her  way,  except  about  the  music. 
There  Rose  sticks  to  it." 

''And  why  shouldn't  she?" 

''Ah,  well,  you  see,  my  dear  fellow,  I  am  old  enough,  and 
you're  not,  to  remember  what  people  in  the  old  days  used  to 
think  about  art.  Of  course  nowadays  we  all  say  very  fine 
things  about  it ;  but  Richard  Leyburn  would  no  more  have  ad- 
mitted that  a  girl  who  hadn't  got  her  own  bread  or  her  family's 
to  earn  by  it  was  justified  in  spending  her  time  in  fiddling  than 
he  would  have  approved  of  her  spending  it  in  dancing.  I  have 
heard  him  take  a  text  out  of  the  '  Imitation '  and  lecture  Rose 
when  she  was  quite  a  baby  for  pestering  any  stray  person  she 
could  get  hold  of  to  give  her  mucic  lessons.  '  Woe  to  them ' — 
yes,  that  was  it—'  that  inquire  many  curious  things  of  men,  and 
care  little  about  the  way  of  serving  Me.'  However,  he  wasn't 
consistent.  Nobody  is.  It  was  actually  he  that  brought  Rose 
her  first  violin  from  London  in  a  green  baize  bag.  Mrs.  Ley- 
burn  took  me  in  one  night  to  see  her  asleep  with  it  on  her  pil- 
low, and  ail  her  pretty  curls  lying  over  the  strings.  I  dare 
say,  poor  man,  it  was  one  of  the  acts  toward  his  children  that 
tormented  his  mind  in  his  last  hour." 

"She  has  certainly  had  her  way  about  practicing  it;  she 
plays  superbly." 

"Oh,  yes,  she  has  had  her  way.  She  is  a  queer  mixture,  is 
Rose.  I  see  a  touch  of  the  old  Leyburn  recklessness  in  her; 
and  then  there  is  the  beauty  and  refinement  of  her  mother's 
side  of  the  family.  Lately  she  has  got  quite  out  of  hand.  She 
went  to  stay  with  some  relations  they  have  in  Manchester,  got 
I  drawn  into  the  musical  set  there,  took  to  these  funny  gowns, 
and  now  she  and  Catherine  are  always  half  at  war.  Poor 


54 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


Catherine  said  to  me  the  other  day,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  that 
she  knew  Rose  thought  her  as  hard  as  iron.  "But  what  can  I 
do?"  she  said.  *  I  promised  papa.'  She  makes  herself  miserable, 
and  it's  no  use.  I  wish  the  little  wild  thing  would  get  herself 
well  married.  She's  not  meant  for  this  humdrum  place,  and 
she  may  kick  over  the  traces." 

"She's  pretty  enough  for  anything  and  anybody,"  said 
Robert. 

The  vicar  looked  at  him  sharply,  but  the  young  man's  criti- 
cal and  meditative  look  reassured  him. 

The  next  day,  just  before  early  dinner.  Rose  and  Agnes,  who 
had  been  for  a  walk,  were  startled,  as  they  were  turning  into 
their  own  gate,  by  the  frantic  waving  of  a  white  handkerchief 
from  the  vicarage  garden.  It  was  Mrs.  Thornburgh's  accepted 
way  of  calling  the  attention  of  the  Burwood  inmates,  and  the 
girls  walked  on.  They  found  the  good  lady  waiting  for  them 
in  the  drive  in  a  characteristic  glow  and  flutter. 

"  My  dears,  I  have  been  looking  out  for  you  all  the  morning. 
I  should  have  come  over  but  for  the  stores  coming,  and  a  tire- 
some mai^  from  Randall's.  I've  had  to  bargain  with  him  for  a 
whole  hour  about  taking  back  those  sweets.  I  was  swindled, 
of  course,  but  we  should  have  died  if  we'd  had  to  eat  them  up. 
Well,  now,  my  dears  " 

The  vicar's  wife  paused.  Her  square  short  figure  was  be- 
tween the  two  girls ;  she  had  an  arm  of  each,  and  she  looked 
significantly  from  one  to  another,  her  gray  curls  fiapping  across 
her  face  as  she  did  so. 

"Go  on,  Mrs.  Thornburgh,"  cried  Rose.  "You  make  us 
quite  nervous." 

"  How  do  you  like  Mr.  Elsmere?"  she  inquired,  solemnly. 

"  Very  much,"  said  both  in  chorus. 

Mrs.  Thornburgh  surveyed  Rose's  smiling  frankness  with  a 
little  sigh.  Things  were  going  grandly,  but  she  could  imagine 
a  disposition  of  affairs  which  would  have  given  her  personally 
more  pleasure. 

How — would— you — like— him  for  brother-in-law?"  she 
inquired,  beginning  in  a  whisper,  with  slow  emphasis,  patting 
Rose's  arm,  and  bringing  out  the  last  words  with  a  rush. 

Agnes  caught  the  twinkle  in  Rose's  eye,  but  she  answered 
for  them  both  demurely. 

"  We  have  no  objection  to  entertain  the  idea.  But  you  must 
^plain." 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


95 


Explain!"  cried  Mrs.  Thornburgh.  ''I  should  think  it 
explains  itself .  At  least  if  you'd  been  in  this  house  the  last 
twenty-four  hours  you'd  think  so.  Since  the  moment  when  he 
first  met  her,  it's  been  'Miss  L^yburn,'  'Miss  Leyburn,'  all 
the  time.  One  might  have  seen  it  with  half  an  eye  from  the 
beginning." 

Mrs.  Thornburgh  had  not  sem  it  with  two  eyes,  as  we  know, 
till  it  was  pointed  out  to  her  -  but  her  imagination  worked  with 
equal  liveliness  backward  or  forward. 

''He  went  to  see  you  yesterday,  didn't  he— yes,  I  know  he 
did— and  he  overtook  her  m  the  pony-carriage— the  vicar  saw 
•  them  from  across  the  vaRey— and  he  brought  her  back  from 
your  house,  and  then  he  kept  WilHam  up  till  nearly  twelve 
talking  of  her.  And  no'v  he  wants  a  picnic.  Oh,  its  as  plain 
as  a  pi^e-staff.  And,  mj  dears,  nothing  to  be  said  against 
him.  Fifteen  hundred  a  year  if  he's  a  penny.  A  nice  Kving, 
only  his  mother  to  iook  after,  and  as  good  a  young  fellow  as 
ever  stepped." 

Mrs.  Thornburgh  stopped,  choked  almost  by  her  own  elo- 
quence.   The  girls,  who  had  by  this  time  established  her  be- 
,    tween  them  on  a  garden-seat,  looked  at  her  with  smiling  com- 
^   posure.    Tb^y  were  accustomed  to  letting  her  have  her  budget 
out. 

"And  now,  of  course,"  she  resumed,  taking  breath,  and 
chilled  a  little  by  their  silence,  "now,  of  course,  I  want  to 
know  about  Catherine?"  She  regarded  them  with  anxious  in- 
terrogation.   Rose,  still  smiling,  slowly  shook  her  head. 

"What!"  cried  Mrs.  Thornburgh;  then,  with  charming  in- 
consistency, "  oh,  you  can't  know  anything  in  two  days." 

"That's  just  it,"  said  Agnes,  intervening;  "we  can't  know 
anything  in  two  days.  No  one  ever  will  know  anything  about 
Catherine,  if  she  takes  to  anybody,  till  the  last  minute." 

Mrs.  Thornburgh's  face  fell.  "  It's  very  difficult  when  peo- 
ple will  be  so  reserved,"  she  said,  dolefully. 

The  girls  acquiesced,  but  intimated  that  they  saw  no  way 
out  of  it. 

"At  any  rate  we  can  bring  them  together,"  she  broke  out, 
brightening  again.  "We  can  have  picnics,  you  know,  and 
teas,  and  all  that— and  watch.   Now  listen." 

And  the  vicar's  wife  sketched  out  a  programme  of  festivities 
for  the  next  fortnight  she  had  been  revolving  in  her  inventive 
head,  which  took  the  sister's  breach  away.   Rose  bit  her  )ip  to 


96 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


keep  in  her  laughter.  Agnes,  with  vast  self-possession,  took 
Mrs.  Thornburghiu  hand.  She  pointed  out  firmly  that  nothing 
would  be  so  likely  to  make  Catherine  impracticable  as  fuss. 

In  vain  is  the  net  spread,"  etc.    She  preached  from  the  text 
with  a  worldly  wisdom  which  quickly  crushed  Mrs.  Thornburgh, 
Well,  what  am  I  to  do,  my  dears     she  said  at  last,  help, 
lessly.    "  Look  at  the  weather!   We  must  have  some  picnics, 
if  it's  only  to  amuse  Robert  I" 

Mrs.  Thornburgh  spent  her  life  between  a  condition  of  effer- 
vescence  and  a  condition  of  feeling  the  world  too  much  for  her. 
Rose  and  Agnes,  having  now  reduced  her  to  the  latter  state- 
proceeded  cautiously  to  give  her  her  head  again.  They  prom- 
ised her  two  or  three  expeditions  and  one  picnic  at  least;  the;y 
said  they  would  do  their  best;  they  promised  they  would  re- 
port what  they  saw  and  be  very  discreet,  both  feehng  the 
comedy  of  Mrs.  Thornburgh  as  the  advocate  of  discretion ;  and 
then  they  departed  to  their  early  dinner,  leaving  the  vicar-.-^^ 
wife  decidedly  less  self-confident  than  they  found  her. 

*'The  fii-st  matrimonial  excitement  of  the  family,"  cried 
Agnes,  as  they  walked  home.  "So  far  no  one  can  say  the 
Misses  Leyburn  have  been  besieged !" 

'^It  will  be  all  moonshine,"  Rose  replied,  decisively.  "Mr. 
Elsmere  may  lose  his  heart ;  we  may  aid  and  abet  him ;  Cather- 
ine will  live  in  the  clouds  for  a  few  weeks,  and  come  down 
from  them  at  the  end  with  the  air  of  an  angel,  to  give  him  his 
coup  de  grace.    As  I  said  before— poor  fellow !" 

Agnes  made  no  answer.  She  was  never  so  positive  as  Rose, 
and  on  the  whole  did  not  find  herself  the  worse  for  it  in  hfe. 
Besides,  she  understood  that  there  was  a  soreness  at  the  bottom 
of  Rose's  heart  that  was  always  showmg  itself  in  unexpected 
connections. 

There  was  no  necessity,  indeed,  for  elaborate  schemes  for  as- 
sisting Providence.  Mrs.  Thornbrn-gh  had  her  picnics  and  her 
expeditions,  but  without  them  Robert  Elsmere  would  have  been 
still  man  enough  to  see  Catherine  Leyburn  every  day.  He 
\  loitered  about  the  roads  along  which  she  must  needs  pass  to  do 
her  many  offices  of  charity;  he  offered  the  vicar  to  take  a  class 
in  the  school,  aad  was  naively  exultant  that  the  vicar  curiously 
happened  to  fix  an  hour  when  he  must  needs  see  Miss  Leyburn 
going  or  coming  on  the  same  errand ;  he  dropped  into  Burwood 
on  any  conceivable  pretext,  till  Rose  and  Agnes  lost  all  incon- 
venient respect  for  his  cloth  and  Mra  Leyburn  sent  Lim  oij 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


97 


errands;  and  he  even  insisted  that  Catherine  and  the  vicar 
should  make  use  of  him  and  his  pastoral  services  in  one  or  two 
of  the  cases  of  sickness  or  poverty  under  their  care.  Catherine, 
with  a  little  more  reserve  than  usual,  took  him  one  day  to  - 
the  Tysons',  and  introduced  him  to  the  poor  crippled  son  who 
was  likely  to  live  pn  paralyzed  for  some  time,  under  the  weight, 
moreover,  of  a  black  cloud  of  depression  which  seldom  lifted. 
Mrs.  Tyson  kept  her  talking  in  the  room,  and  she  never  forgot 
the  scene.  It  showed  her  a  new  aspect  of  a  man  whose  intel- 
lectual life  was  becoming  plain  to  her,  while  his  moral  life  was 
still  something  of  a  mystery.  The  look  in  Elsmere's  face  as  he 
sat  bending  over  the  maimed  young  farmer,  the  strength  and 
tenderness  of  the  man,  the  diffidence  of  the  few  religious  things 
he  said,  and  yet  the  reality  and  force  of  them,  struck  her 
powerfully.  He  had  forgotten  her,  forgotten  everything  savt 
the  bitter  human  need,  and  the  comfort  it  was  his  privilege  to 
offer.  Catherine  stood  answering  Mrs.  Tyson  at  random,  the 
tears  rising  in  her  eyes.  She  slipped  out  while  he  was  still 
talking,  and  went  home  strangely  moved. 

As  to  the  festivities,  she  did  her  best  to  join  in  them.  The 
sensitive  soul  often  reproached  itself  afterward  for  having 
juggled  in  the  matter.  Was  it  not  her  duty  to  manage  a  little 
society  and  gayety  for  her  sisters  sometimes  ?  Her  mother 
could  not  undertake  it,  and  was  always  plaintively  protesting 
that  Catherine  would  not  be  young.  So  for  a  short  week  or 
two  Catherine  did  her  best  to  be  young,  and  climbed  the  moun- 
tain grass,  or  forded  the  mountain  streams  with  the  energy 
and  the  grace  of  perfect  health,  trembling  afterward  at  night 
as  she  knelt  by  her  window  to  think  how  much  sheer  pleasure 
the  day  had  contained.  Her  life  had  always  had  the  tension  of 
a  bent  bow.  It  seemed  to  her  once  or  twice  during  this  fort- 
night as  though  something  were  suddenly  relaxed  in  her,  and 
she  felt  a  swift  Bunyan-like  terror  of  backsliding,  of  falling 
away.  But  she  never  confessed  herself  fully;  she  was  even 
blind  to  what  her  perspicacity  would  have  seen  so  readily  in 
another's  case — the  little  arts  and  maneuvres  of  those  about 
her.  It  did  not  strike  her  that  Mrs.  Thornburgh  was  more 
flighty  and  more  ebullient  than  ever;  that  the  vicar's  wife 
kissed  her  at  odd  times,  and  with  a  quite  unwonted  effusion; 
or  that  Agnes  and  Rose,  when  they  were  in  the  wild  heart  of 
the  mountains,  or  wandering  far  and  wide  in  search  of  sticks 
for  a  picnic  fire,  showed  a  perfect  genius  for  avoiding  Mv-  BIp 


98 


BOBERT  ELSMERE. 


mere,  whom  both  of  them  liked,  and  that  in  consequence  his 
society  almost  always  fell  to  her.  Nor  did  she  ever  analyze 
what  would  have  been  the  attraction  of  those  walks  to  her  with- 
out that  tall  figure  at  her  side,  that  bounding  step,  that  pict- 
uresque, impetuous  talk.  There  are  moments  when  Nature 
throws  a  kind  of  heavenly  mist  and  dazzlement  round  the  soul 
it  would  fain  make  happy.  The  soul  gropes  bhndly  on ;  if  it 
saw  its  way  it  might  be  timid  and  draw  back,  but  kind  powers 
lead  it  genially  onward  through  a  golden  darkness. 

Meanwhile  if  she  did  not  know  herself,  she  and  Elsmere 
learned  with  wonderful  quickness  and  thoroughness  to  know 
each  other.    The  two  households  so  near  together,  and  so  iso 
lated  from  the  world  besides,  were  necessarily  in  constant  com- 
munication.   And  Elsmere  made  a  most  stirring  element  in 
their  common  Ufe.     Never  had  he  been  more  keen,  more 
strenuous.    It  gave  Catherine  new  Hghts  on  modem  character 
altogether  to  see  how  he  was  preparing  himself  for  this  Surrey 
living— reading  up  the  history,  geology  and  botany  of  the 
Weald  and  its  neighborhood,  plunging  into  reports  of  agri- 
cultural commissions,  or  spending  his  quick  brain  on  village 
sanitation,  with  the  oddest  results  sometimes,  so  far  as  his  con- 
versation was  concerned.    And  then  in  the  middle  of  his  dis- 
quisitions, which  would  keep  her  breathless  with  a  sense  of 
being  whirled  through  space  at  the  tail  of  an  electric  kite,  the 
kite  would  come  down  with  a  run,  and  the  preacher  and  re- 
former would  come,  hat  in  hand,  to  the  girl  beside  him,  asking 
her  humbly  to  advise  him,  to  pour  out  on  him  some  of  that 
practical  experience  of  hers  among  the  poor  and  suffering,  for 
the  sake  of  which  he  would  in  an  instant  scornfully  fling  out  of 
sight  all  his  own  magnificent  plannings.    Never  had  she  told 
^o  much  of  her  own  life  to  any  one;  her  consciousness  of  it 
sometimes  filled  her  with  a  sort  of  terror,  lest  she  might  have 
been  trading,  as  it  were,  for  her  own  advantage  on  the  sacred 
things  of  God.    But  he  would  have  it.    His  sympathy,  his 
sweetness,  his  quick  spiritual  feeling  drew  the  stories  out  of 
her.    And  then  how  his  bright,  frank  eyes  would  soften !  With 
what  a  reverence  would  he  touch  her  hand  when  she  said 

good-bye!  .    ^  ^ 

And  on  her  side  she  felt  that  she  knew  almost  as  much  about 
MureweU  as  he  did.  She  could  imagine  the  wHd  beauty  of  the 
Surrey  heatbland,  she  could  see  the  white  square  rectory  with 
its  sloping  waUed  garden,  the  juniper  common  just  outside  the 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


99 


straggling  village ;  she  could  even  picture  the  strange  squire, 
solitary  in  the  great  Tudor  Hall,  the  author  of  terrible  books 
against  the  religion  of  Christ  of  which  she  shrunk  from 
hearing,  and  share  the  anxieties  of  the  young  rector  as  to  his 
future  relations  toward  a  personality  so  marked  and  so  im- 
portant to  every  soul  in  the  little  community  he  was  called  to 
rule.  Here  all  was  plain  sailing ;  she  understood  him  perfectly, 
and  her  gentle  comroents,  or  her  occasional  sarcasms,  were 
friendliness  itself. 

But  it  was  when  he  turned  to  larger  things—  to  books,  move- 
ments, leaders  of  the  day — that  she  was  often  puzzled,  some- 
times distressed.  Why  would  he  seem  to  exalt  and  glorify 
rebellion  against  the  established  order  in  the  person  of  Mr. 
Grey?  Or  why,  ardent  as  his  own  faith  was,  would  he  talk  as 
though  opinion  was  a  purely  personal  matter,  hardly  in  itself 
to  be  made  the  subject  of  moral  judgment  at  all,  and  as  though 
right  belief  were  a  blessed  privilege  and  boon  rather  than  a 
law  and  an  obligation??  When  his  comments  on  men  and 
things  took  this  tinge  she  would  turn  silent,  feeling  a  kind  of 
painful  opposition  between  his  venturesome  speech  and  his 
clergyman's  dress. 

And  yet,  as  we  all  know,  these  ways  of  speech  were  not  his 
own.  He  was  merely  talking  the  natural  Christian  language 
of  this  generation;  whereas,  she,  the  child  of  a  mystic — soli- 
tary, intense,  and  deeply  reflective  from  her  earliest  youth— 
was  still  thinking  and  speaking  in  the  language  of  her  father's 
generation. 

But  although,  as  often  as  his  unwariness  brought  him  near 
to  these  points  of  jarring,  he  would  hurry  away  from  them, 
conscious  that  here  was  the  one  profound  difference  between 
them,  it  was  clear  to  him  that  insensibly  she  had  moved  fur- 
ther than  she  knew  from  her  father's  stand-point.  Even  among 
those  solitudes,  far  from  men  and  literature,  she  had  uncon- 
sciously felt  the  breath  of  her  time  in  some  degree.  As  he  pen- 
etrated deeper  into  the  nature  he  found  it  honeycombed,  as  it 
were,  here  and  there,  with  beautiful  unexpected  softnesses  and 
diffidences.  Once,  after  a  long  walk,  as  they  were  lingering 
homeward  under  a  cloudy  evening  sky,  he  came  upon  the  great 
problem  ol  her  life— Rose  and  Rose's  art.  He  drew  her  difficulty 
from  her  with  the  most  delicate  skill.  She  had  laid  it  bare,  and 
was  blushing  to  think  how  she  had  asked  his  counsel,  almost 
before  she  knew  where  their  talk  was  leading.    How  was  it 


100 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


lawful  for  the  Christian  to  spend  the  few  short  years  of  the 
earthly  comhat  in  any  pursuit,  however  noble  and  exquisite, 
which  merely  aimed  at  the  gratification  of  the  senses,  and  im- 
plied in  the  pnrsuer  the  emphasizing  rather  than  the  surrender 
of  self? 

He  argued  it  very  much  as  Kingsley  would  have  argued  it, 
tried  to  hft  her  to  a  more  intelhgent  view  of  a  multifarious 
world,  dwelling  on  the  function  of  pure  beauty  in  life,  and  on 
the  influence  of  beauty  on  character,  pointing  out  the  value  to 
the  race  of  all  individual  development,  and  pressing  home  on 
her  the  natural  religious  question:  How  are  the  artistic  apti- 
tudes to  be  explained  unless  the  Great  Designer  meant  them  to 
have  a  use  and  function  in  His  world?  She  repUed,  doubtfully, 
that  she  had  always  supposed  they  were  lawful  for  recreation, 
and  like  any  other  trade  for  bread-winning,  but- 
Then  he  told  her  much  that  he  knew  about  the  humanizing 
effect  of  music  on  the  poor.  He  described  to  her  the  efforts  of 
a  London  society,  of  which  he  was  a  subscribing  member,  to 
popularize  the  best  music  among  the  lowest  class;  he  dwelt 
almost  with  passion  on  the  difference  before  the  joy  to  be  got 
out  of  such  things  and  the  common  brutalizing  joys  of  the 
workman.  And  you  could  not  have  art  without  artists.  In 
this  again  he  was  only  talking  the  commonplaces  of  his  day. 
But  to  her  they  were  not  commonplaces  at  all.  She  looked  at 
him  from  time  to  time,  her  great  eyes  hghtening  and  deepening 
as  it  seemed  with  every  fresh  thrust  of  his. 

I  am  grateful  to  you,"  she  said  at  last,  with  an  involuntary 
outburst,    I  am  very  grateful  to  you  !" 

And  she  gave  a  long  sigh  as  if  some  burden  she  had  long 
borne  in  patient  silence  had  been  loosened  a  Httle,  if  only  by  the 
fact  of  speech  about  it.  She  was  not  convinced  exactly.  She 
was  too  strong  a  nature  to  reUnquish  a  principle  without  a 
period  of  meditative  struggle  in  which  conscience  should  have 
all  its  dues.  But  her  tone  made  his  heart  leap.  He  felt  in  it  a 
momentary  self -surrender  that,  coming  from  a  creature  of  so 
rare  a  dignity,  filled  him  with  an  exquisite  sense  of  power,  and 
yet  at  the  same  time  with  a  strange  humility  beyond  words. 

A  day  or  two  later  he  was  the  spectator  of  a  curious  little 
scene.  An  aunt  of  the  Leyburns  Hving  in  Whinborough  came 
ro  see  them.  She  was  their  father's  youngest  sister,  and  the 
^vif  e  of  a  man  who  had  made  some  money  as  a  builder  in  Whin- 
ooi^ough.   When  Eobert  came  in  he  found  her  sitting  on  the 


ROBERT  ELSMEEE. 


101 


sofa  having  tea,  a  large,  homely  looking  woman  with  gray  hair 
a  high  brow,  and  prominent  white  teeth.  She  had  unfastened 
her  bonnet-strings,  and  a  clean  white  handkerchief  lay  spread 
out  on  her  lap.  When  Elsmere  was  introduced  to  her,  she  got 
up,  and  said,  with  some  effusiveness  and  a  distinct  Westmore- 
land accent : 

''Very  pleased  indeed  to  make  your  acquaintance,  sir," 
while  she  inclosed  his  fingers  in  a  capacious  hand. 

Mrs.  Leybum,  looking  fidgety  and  uncomfortable,  was  sitting 
near  her,  and  Catherine,  the  only  member  of  the  party  who 
showed  no  sign  of  embarrassment  when  Eobert  entered,  was 
superintending  her  aunt's  tea  and  talking  busily  the  while. 
Robert  sat  down  at  a  Httle  distance  beside  Agnes  and  Rose, 
who  were  chattering  together  a  little  artificially  and  of  set  pur- 
pose as  it  seemed  to  him.  But  the  aunt  was  not  to  be  ignored. 
She  talked  too  loud  not  to  be  overheard,  and  Agnes  inwardly 
noted  that  as  soon  as  Robert  Elsmere  appeared  she  talked 
louder  than  before.  He  gathered  presently  that  she  was  an 
ardent  Wesleyan,  and  that  she  was  engaged  in  describing  to 
Catherine  and  Mrs.  Leybum  the  evangelistic  exploits  of  her 
eldest  son,  who  had  recently  obtained  his  first  circuit  as  a  Wes- 
leyan minister.  He  was  shrewd  e'hough,  too,  to  guess,  after  a 
minute  or  two,  that  his  presence  and  probably  his  obnoxious 
clerical  dress  gave  additional  zest  to  the  recital. 

''Oh,  his  success  at  Colesbridge  has  been  somethin'  marvel- 
ous," he  heard  her  say,  with  uphfted  hands  and  eyes,  "some- 
thin'  marvelous.  The  Lord  has  blessed  him  indeed  !  It  doesn't 
matter  what  it  is,  whether  it's  meetin's,  or  sermons,  or  parlor 
work,  or  just  faithful  dealin's  with  souls  one  by  one.  Satan 
has  no  cliverer  foe  than  Edward.  He  never  shuts  his  eyes;  as 
Edward  says  himself,  it's  Hke  trackin'  for  game  is  huntin'  for 
souls.  Why,  the  other  day  he  was  walkin'  out  from  Coventry 
to  a  service.  It  was  the  Sabbath,  and  he  saw  a  man  in  a  bit  of 
grass  by  the  road-side,  mendin'  his  cart.  And  he  stopped,  did 
Edward,  and  gave  him  the  Word  strong.  The  man  seemed 
puzzled  like,  and  said  he  meant  no  harm.  '  No  harm  !'  says 
Edward,  '  when  you're  just  doin'  the  devil's  work  every  nail 
you  put  in,  and  hammerin'  away,  mon,  at  your  own  damna- 
ti6n.'  And  here's  his  letter."  And  while  Rose  turned  away  to 
a  far  window  to  hide  an  almost  hysterical  inclination  to  laugh, 
Mrs.  Fleming  opened  her  bag,  took  out  a  treasured  paper,  and 


102 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


read,  with  the  emphasis  and  the  unction  peculiar  to  a  certain 
type  of  revivalism : 

' '  Poor  sinner  !  He  was  much  put  about.  I  left  him,  praying 
the  Lord  my  shaft  might  rankle  in  him;  ay,  might  fester  and 
burn  in  him  till  he  found  no  peace  but  in  Jesus.  He  seemed 
very  dark  and  destitute— no  respect  for  the  Word  or  its  minis- 
ters. A  bit  further  I  met  a  boy  carrying  a  load  of  turnips.  To 
him,  too,  I  was  faithful,  and  he  went  on,  taking,  without  know- 
ing it,  a  precious  leaflet  with  him  in  his  bag.  Glorious  work  I 
If  Wesleyans  will  but  go  on  claiming  even  the  highways  for 
God,  sin  will  skulk  yet.' " 

A  dead  silence.  Mrs.  Fleming  folded  up  the  letter  and  put  it 
back  into  her  bag. 

''There's  your  true  minister,"  she  said,  with  a  large,  judicial 
utterance  as  she  closed  the  snap.  ''  Wherever  he  goes,  Edward 
must  have  souls  !" 

And  she  threw  a  swift,  searching  look  at  the  young  clergy- 
man in  the  window. 

"  He  must  have  very  hard  work  with  so  much  walking  and 
preaching,"  said  Catherine,  gently. 

Somehow,  as  soon  as  she  spoke,  Elsmere  saw  the  whole  odd 
little  scene  with  other  eyes. 

"His  work  is  just  wearin'  him  out,"  said  the  mother,  fer- 
vently;  "but  a  minister  doesn't  think  of  that.  Wherever  he 
goes  there  are  sinners  saved.  He  stayed  last  week  at  a  house 
near  Nuneaton.  At  family  prayer  alone  there  were  five  saved. 
And  at  the  prayer-meetin's  on  the  Sabbath  such  outpourin's 
of  the  Spirit!  Edward  comes  home,  his  wife  tells  me,  just 
ready  to  drop.  Are  you  acquainted,  sir,"  she  added,  turning 
suddenly  to  Elsmere,  and  speaking  in  a  certain  tone  of  provo- 
cation, "with  the  labors  of  our  Wesleyan  ministers?" 

"No,"  said  Eobert,  with  his  pleasant  smile,  "not  person- 
ally. But  I  have  the  greatest  respect  for  them  as  a  body  of 
devoted  men." 

The  look  of  battle  faded  from  the  woman's  face.  It  was  not 
an  unpleasant  face.  He  even  saw  strange  reminiscences  of 
Catherine  in  it  at  times. 

"  You're  aboot  right  there,  sir.  Not  that  they  dare  take  any 
credit  to  themselves— it's  grace,  sir,  all  grace." 

"Aunt  Ellen,"  said  Catherine,  while  a  sudden  light  broke 
over  her  face.  "  I  just  want  you  to  take  Edward  a  little  story 


BOBERT  ELSMERE. 


103 


from  me.  Ministers  are  good  things,  but  God  can  do  without 
them." 

And  she  laid  her  hand  on  her  aunt's  knee  with  a  smile  in 
which  there  was  the  slightest  touch  of  affectionate  satire, 

"  I  was  up  among  the  fells  the  other  day,"  she  went  on ;  I 
met  an  elderly  man  cutting  wood  in  a  plantation,  and  I  stopped 
and  asked  him  how  he  was.  /  Ah,  miss,'  he  said,  '  verra  weel, 
verra  weel.  And  yet  it  was  nobbut  Friday  morning  lasst,  I 
cam'  oop  here,  awfu'  bad  in  my  sperrits  like.  For  my  wife 
she's  sick,  an'  a'  dwinnelt  away,  and  I'm  gettin'  auld,  and 
can't  wark  as  I'd  used  to,  and  it  did  luke  to  me  as  thoo  there 
was  naethin'  afore  us  nobbut  t'  union.  And  t'  mist  war  low 
on  t'  fells,  and  I  sat  oonder  t'  wall,  wettish  and  broodin'  like. 
And  theer— all  ov  a  soodent  the  Lord  found  me!  Yes,  puir 
Reuben  Judge,  as  dawn't  matter  to  naebody,  the  Lord  found 
un.  It  war  leyke  as  thoo  His  feeace  cam'  a-glisterin'  an' 
a~shinin'  through  t'  mist.  An'  iver  sence  then,  miss,  aa've 
jest  felt  as  thoo  aa  could  a'  cut  an'  stackt  all  t'  wood  on  t'  fell 
in  naw  time  at  a' !'  And  he  waved  his  hand  round  the  mount- 
ain side  which  was  covered  with  plantation.  And  all  the  way 
along  the  path  for  ever  so  long  I  could  hear  him  singing,  chop- 
ping away,  and  quavering  out:  *  Eock  of  Ages.'  " 

She  paused ;  her  delicate  face,  with  just  a  little  quiver  in  the 
lip,  turned  to  her  aunt,  her  eyes  glowing  as  though  a  hidden 
fire  had  leaped  suddenly  outward.  And  yet  the  gesture,  the 
attitude,  was  simplicity  and  unconsciousness  itself.  Eobert 
had  never  heard  her  say  anything  so  intimate  before.  Nor 
had  he  ever  seen  her  so  inspired,  so  beautiful.  She  had  trans- 
muted the  conversation  at  a  touch.  It  had  been  barbarous 
prose;  she  had  turned  it  into  purest  poetry.  Only  the  noblest 
souls  have  such  an  alchemy  as  this  at  command,  thought  the 
watcher  on  the  other  side  of  the  room  with  a  passionate  rever- 
ence. 

"I  wasn't  thinkin'  of  narrowin'  the  Lord  down  to  minis- 
ters," said  Mrs.  Fleming,  with  a  certain  loftiness.  We  all 
know  He  can  do  with  us  puir  worms." 

Then,  seeing  that  no  one  replied,  the  good  woman  got  up  to 
go.  Much  of  her  apparel  had  slipped  away  from  her  in  the 
fervors  of  revivalist  anecdote,  and  while  she  hunted  for  gloves 
and  reticule— officiously  helped  by  the  younger  girls— Eobert 
crossed  over  to  Catherine. 

''You  lifted  us  on  to  your  own  high  places!'  ho  sciid,  heiid 


104 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


ing  down  to  her;       shall  carry  your  story  with  me  through 
the  fells." 

She  looked  up,  and  as  she  met  his  warm,  moved  look,  a  Ut- 
tie  glow  and  tremor  crept  into  the  face,  destroying  its  exalted 
expression.  He  broke  the  spell;  she  sunk  from  the  poet  into 
the  embarrassed  woman. 

You  must  see  my  old  man,"  she  said,  with  an  effort;  he 
is  worth  a  library  of  sermons.    I  must  introduce  him  to  you." 

He  could  think  of  nothing  else  to  say  just  then,  but  could 
only  stand  impatiently  wishing  for  Mrs.  Fleming's  disappear- 
ance, that  he  might  somehow  appropriate  her  eldest  niece. 
But  alas!  when  she  went,  Catherine  went  out  with  her,  and 
reappeared  no  more,  though  he  waited  some  time. 

He  walked  home  in  a  whirl  of  feeling ;  on  the  way  he  stopped, 
and  leaning  over  a  gate  which  led  into  one  of  the  river-fields 
gave  himself  up  to  the  mounting  tumult  witliin.  Gradually, 
from  the  half-articulate  chaos  of  hope  and  memory,  there 
emerged  the  deliberate  voice  of  his  inmost  manhood. 

**In  her  and  her  only  is  my  heart's  desire!  She  and  she 
only  if  she  will,  and  God  will,  shall  be  my  wife !" 

He  lifted  his  head  and  looked  out  on  the  dewy  field,  the 
evening  beauty  of  the  hills,  with  a  sense  of  immeasurable 
change— 

''Tears 

Were  in  his  eyes,  and  in  his  ears 
The  murmur  of  a  thousand  years. " 

He  felt  himself  knit  to  his  kind,  to  his  race,  as  he  had  never 
felt  before.  It  was  as  though,  after  a  long  apprenticeship,  he 
had  sprung  suddenly  into  'maturity— entered  at  last  into  the 
full  human  heritage.  But  the  very  intensity  and  solemnity  of 
his  own  feelings  gave  him  a  rare  clear-sightedness.  He  real- 
ized that  he  had  no  certainty  of  success,  scarcely  even  an  en- 
tirely reasonable  hope.  But  what  of  that?  Were  they  not 
together,  alone,  practically,  in  these  blessed  sohtudes?  Would 
they  not  meet  to-morrow,  and  next  day,  and  the  day  after? 
Were  not  time  and  opportunity  all  his  own?  How  kind  her 
looks  are  even  now!  Courage!  And  through  that  maidenly 
kindness  his  own  passion  shall  ser<^  the  last  transmuting  glow. 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


105 


CHAPTER  VII. 
The  following  morning  about  noon,  Rose,  who  had  been 
coaxed  and  persuaded  by  Catherine,  much  against  her  will, 
into  taking  a  singing  class  at  the  school,  closed  the  school  door 
behind  her  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  tripped  up  the  road  to 
Burwood. 

How  abominably  they  sung  this  morning!"  she  said  to  her- 
self with  curving  lip.  ''Talk  of  the  natural  north-country 
gift  for  music !  What  ridiculous  fictions  people  set  up !  Dear 
me,  what  clouds !  Perhaps  we  sha'n't  get  our  walk  to  Shan- 
moor  after  all,  and  if  we  don't,  and  if— if  "—her  cheek  flushed 
with  a  sudden  excitement— ''if  Mr.  Elsmere  doesn't  propose, 
Mrs.  Thornburgh  will  be  unmanageable.  It  is  all  Agnes  and 
I  can  do  to  keep  her  in  bounds  as  it  is,  and  if  something 
doesn't  come  off  to-day,  she'll  be  for  reversing  the  usual  pro- 
ceeding, and  asking  Catherine  her  intentions,  which  would 
niin  everything." 

Then  raising  her  head  she  swept  her  eyes  round  the  sky. 
The  wind  was  freshening,  the  clouds  were  coming  up  fast  from 
the  westward;  over  the  summit  of  High  Fell  and  the  crags 
on  either  side,  a  gray  straight-edged  curtain  was  already  low- 
ering. 

"It  will  hold  up  yet  awhile,"  she  thought,  "and  if  it  rains 
later  we  can  get  a  carriage  at  Shanmoor  and  come  back  by 
the  road." 

And  she  walked  on  homeward,  meditating,  her  thin  fingers 
clasped  before  her,  the  wind  blowing  her  skirts,  the  blue  rib- 
bons on  her  hat,  the  little  gold  curls  on  her  temples,  in  a 
pretty  many-colored  turmoil  about  her.  When  she  got  to 
Burwood  she  shut  herself  into  the  room  which  was  pecuHarly 
hers,  the  room  which  had  been  a  stable.  Now  it  was  full  of 
artistic  odds  and  ends— her  fiddle,  of  course,  and  piles  of 
music,  her  violin  stand,  a  few  deal  tables  and  cane  chairs 
beautified  by  a  number  of  chiffrons,  bits  of  liberty  stuffs  with 
the  edges  still  ragged,  or  cheap  morsels  of  Syrian  embroidery. 
On  the  tables  stood  photographs  of  musicians  and  friends— 
the  spoils  of  her  visits  to  Manchester,  and  of  two  visits  to 
London  which  gleamed  like  golden  points  in  the  girl's  mem- 
ory. The  plastered  walls  were  covered  with  an  odd  medley. 
Here  was  a  round  mirror,  of  which  Rose  was  enormously 
proud.   She  had  extracted  it  from  a  farm-house  of  the  neigh- 


106 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


borhood,  and  paid  for  it  with  her  own  money.  There  a  group 
of  unfinished  headlong  sketches  of  the  most  fiercely  impres- 
sionist description— the  work  and  the  gift  of  a  knot  of  Man- 
chester artists,  who  had  feted  and  flattered  the  heautif ul  little 
Westmoreland  girl,  when  she  was  staying  among  them,  to 
her  heart's  content.  Manchester,  almost  alone  among  our 
great  towns  of  the  present  day,  has  not  only  a  musical,  hut 
a  pictorial  hfe  ol  its  own;  its  young  artists  dr!:  themselves 
a  school,"  study  in  Paris,  and  when  they  come  home  scout 
the  Academy  and  its  method^  and  pine  to  set  up  a  rival  art- 
center,  skilled  in  all  the  methods  of  the  Salon,  in  the  murky 
north.  Eose's  uncle,  originally  a  clerk  in  a  warehouse,  and  a 
rough  diamond  enough,  had  more  or  less  moved  with  the  times, 
(ike  his  hrother  Eichard ;  at  any  rate  he  had  grown  rich,  had 
married  a  decent  wife,  and  was  glad  enough  to  befriend  his 
<lear  brother's  children,  who  wanted  nothing  of  him,  and  did 
their  uncle  a  credit  of  which  he  was  sensible,  by  their  good 
manners  and  good  looks.  Music  was  the  only  point  at  which 
he  touched  the  culture  of  the  times,  like  so  many  business 
men;  but  it  pleased  him  also  to  pose  as  a  patron  of  local  art; 
so  that  when  Eose  went  to  stay  with  her  childless  uncle  and 
aunt,  she  found  long-haired  artists  and  fiery  musicians  about 
the  place,  who  excited  and  encouraged  her  musical  gift,  who 
sketched  her  while  she  played,  and  talked  to  the  pretty,  clever, 
imformed  creature  of  London  and  Paris  and  Italy,  and  set 
her  pining  for  that  golden  vie  de  Boheme  which  she  alone 
apparently  of  all  artists  was  destined  never  to  know. 

For  she  was  an  artist— sh<^  would  be  an  artist— let  Catherine 
5^y  what  she  would !  She  i-ame  back  from  Manchester  restless 
lor  she  knew  not  what,  th  crsty  for  the  joys  and  emotions  of 
art,  determined  to  be  fret,  reckless,  passionate;  with  Wagner 
and  Brahms  in  her  young  blood ;  and  found  Burwood  waiting 
for  her— Burwood,  the  lonely  house  in  the  lonely  valley,  c^. 
which  Catherine  was  the  presiding  genius.  Catherine !  For 
Rose,  what  a  multitude  of  associations  clustered  round  the 
name!  To  her  it  meant  everything  at  this  moment  against 
which  her  soul  rebelled— the  most  scrupulous  order,  the  most 
rigid  self -repression,,  the  most  determined  sacrificing  of  *  ^  this 
warm,  kind  world,"  with  all  its  indefensible  delights,  to  a  cold 
other-world  with  its  torturing  inadmissible  claims.  Even  in 
the  midst  of  her  stolen  joys  at  Manchester  or  London,  this 
mere  name,  the  nir  re  mental  image  of  Catherine  moving  through 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


107 


life,  wrapped  in  a  religious  peace  and  certainty  as  austere  as 
they  were  beautiful,  and  asking  of  all  about  her  the  same  abso- 
lute surrender  to  an  awful  Master  she  gave  so  easily  herself, 
was  enough  to  chill  the  wayward  Eose,  and  fill  her  with  a  kind 
of  restless  despair.  And  at  home,  as  the  vicar  said,  the  two 
sisters  were  always  on  the  verge  of  conflict.  Eose  had  enough 
of  her  father  in  her  to  suffer  in  resisting,  but  resist  she  must 
by  the  law  of  her  nature. 

Now,  as  she  threw  off  her  walking  things,  she  fell  first  upon 
her  violin,  and  rushed  through  a  Brahms's  ^-Liebeslied,"  her 
eyes  dancing,  her  whole  light  form  thrilling  with  the  joy  of  it; 
and  then  with  a  sudden  revulsion  she  stopped  playing,  and 
threw  herself  down  listlessly  by  the  open  window.  Close  by 
against  the  wall  was  a  little  looking-glass,  by  which  she  often 
arranged  her  rufSed  locks;  she  glanced  at  it  now;  it  showed 
her  a  brilhant  face  enough,  but  drooping  lips,  and  eyes  dark- 
ened with  the  extravagant  melancholy  of  eighteen. 

*'Itis  come  to  a  pretty  pass,"  she  said  to  herself,  ''that  I 
should  be  able  to  think  of  nothing  but  schemes  for  getting 
Catherine  married  and  out  of  my  way !  Considering  what  she 
is  and  what  I  am,  and  how  she  has  slaved  for  us  all  her  life,  I 
seem  to  have  descended  pretty  low.    Heigh  ho !" 

And  with  a  portentous  sigh  she  dropped  her  chin  on  her 
hand.  She  was  half  acting,  acting  to  herself.  Life  was  not 
really  quite  unbearable,  and  she  knew  it.  But  it  relieved  her 
to  overdo  it. 

''I  wonder  how  much  chance  there  is,"  she  mused  presently. 
''Mr.  Elsmere  will  soon  be  ridiculous.  Why,  /saw  him  gath- 
er up  those  violets  she  threw  away  yesterday  on  Moor  Crag. 
And  as  for  her,  I  don't  believe  she  has  realized  the  situation  a 
bit.  At  least,  if  she  has  she  is  as  unlike  other  mortals  in  thi^ 
as  in  everything  else.   But  when  she  does—" 

She  frowned  and  meditated,  but  got  no  light  on  the  problem 
Chattie  jumped  up  on  the  window-sill,  with  her  usual  stealthj 
aplomb,  and  rubbed  herself  against  the  girl's  face. 

''Oh,  Chattie!"  cried  Eose,  throwing  her  arms  round  tb, 
cat,  "if  Catherine'll  only  marry  Mr.  Elsmere,  my  dear,  and  b^ 
happy  ever  afterward,  and  set  me  free  to  live  my  own  life  \ 
bit,  I'll  be  so  good,  you  won't  know  me,  Chattie.  And  yoi 
shall  have  a  new  collar,  my  beauty,  and  cream  till  you  die  o 
it  I" 

And  springing  up  she  dragged  jn^th*^  '-^t,  and  snatching 


108 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


scarlet  anemone  from  a  bunch  on  the  table,  stood  opposite 
Chattie,  who  stood  slowly  waving  her  magnificent  tail  from 
side  to  side,  and  glaring  as  though  it  were  not  at  all  to  her 
taste  to  be  hustled  and  bustled  in  this  way. 

' '  Now,  Chattie,  listen !   Will  she  ?" 

A  leaf  of  the  flower  dropped  on  Chattie's  nose. 
Won't  she?    Will  she?    Won^t  she?    Will—  Tiresome 
flower,  why  did  Nature  give  it  such  a  beggarly  few  petals?  II 
I'd  had  a  daisy  it  would  have  all  come  right.    Come,  Chattie, 
waltz,  and  let's  forget  this  wicked  world  I" 

And,  snatching  up  her  viohn,  the  girl  broke  into  a  Strauss 
waltz,  dancing  to  it  the  while,  her  cotton  skirts  flying,  her 
pretty  feet  twinkling,  till  her  eyes  glowed,  and  her  cheeks 
blazed  with  a  double  intoxication — the  intoxication  of  move 
ment,  and  the  intoxication  of  sound— the  cat  meanwhile  fol- 
lowing her  with  little  mincing,  perplexed  steps,  as  though  not 
knowing  what  to  make  of  her. 

*'Eose,  you  madcap!"  cried  Agnes,  opening  the  door. 

*'Not  at  all,  my  dear,"  said  Rose  calmly,  stopping  to  take 
breath.  ''Excellent  practice  and  uncommonly  difficult.  Try 
if  you  can  do  it,  and  see !" 

The  weather  held  up  in  a  gray,  grudging  sort  of  way,  and 
Mrs.  Thornburgh  especially  was  all  for  braving  the  clouds  and 
going  on  with  the  expedition.  It  was  galling  to  her  that  she 
berseK  would  have  to  be  driven  to  Shanmoor  behind  the  fat 
vicarage  pony,  while  the  others  would  be  climbing  the  fells, 
and  all  sorts  of  exciting  things  might  be  happening.  S.till  it 
was  infinitely  better  to  be  half  in  it  than  not  in  it  at  all,  and 
she  started  by  the  side  of  the  vicarage  ''man"  in  a  most  deh- 
cious  flutter.  The  skies  might  fall  any  day  now.  Elsmere 
had  not  confided  in  her,  though  she  was  unable  to  count  the 
openings  she  had  given  him  thereto.  For  one  of  the  frankest 
of  men  he  had  kept  his  secret,  so  far  as  words  went,  with  a  re- 
markable tenacity.  Probably  the  neighborhood  of  Mrs.  Thorn- 
burgh was  enough  to  make  the  veriest  chatter-box  secretive. 
But  notwithstanding,  no  one  possessing  the  clew  could  live  in 
the  same  house  with  him  these  Jime  days  without  seeing  that 
the  whole  man  was  absorbed,  transformed,  and  that  the  crisis 
might  be  reached  at  any  moment.  Even  the  vicar  was  eager 
and  w^atchful,  and  playing  up  to  his  wife  m  fine  style,  and  U 
the  situation  had  so  worked  on  the  vicar,  Mrs.  •ThombunT" 
state  is  casie]-  imagined  than  described. 


ROBERT  ELSMERE.  l^'-* 

The  walk  to  Shanmoor  need  not  be  clironicled.  The  party 
kept  together.  Robert  fancied  sometimes  that  there  was  a  cer- 
tain note  of  purpose  in  the  way  in  which  Catherine  emng  to 
the  vicar  If  so  it  did  not  disquiet  him.  Never  had  she  been 
kinder,  more  gentle.  Nay,  as  the  walk  went  on  a  lovely  gay- 
etv  broke  through  her  tranquil  manner,  as  though  she,  uKethe 
others,  had  caught  exhHaration  from  the  sharpened  breeze  and 
the  towering  mountains,  restored  to  all  their  grandeur  oy  the 

storm-clouds.  ^    .        ,  ^     m  ov. 

And  yet  she  had  started  in  some  little  mward  trouole.  She 
had  promised  to  join  this  walk  to  Shanmoor,  she  had  promised 
to  go  with  the  others  on  a  picnic  the  following  day,  but  her 
conscience  was  pricking  her.  Twice  this  last  fortnight  had 
she  been  forced  to  give  up  a  night-school  she  held  m  a  htde 
lonely  hamlet  among  the  fells,  because  even  she  had  been  too 
tired  to  walk  there  and  back  after  a  day  of  physical  exertion. 
Were  not  the  world  and  the  flesh  encroaching  ?  She  had  been 
conscious  of  a  strange  inner  restlessness  as  they  all  stood  wait- 
ing in  the  road  for  the  vicar  and  Elsmere.  Agnes  had  thought 
her  looking  depressed  and  pale,  and  even  dreamed  for  a  mo- 
ment of  suggesting  to  her  to  stay  at  home.  And  then  ten 
minutes  after  they  had  started  it  had  all  gone,  her  depression, 
blown  away  by  the  winds,  or  charmed  away  by  a  happy  voice, 
a  manly  presence,  a  keen  responsive  eye  ? 

Elsmere,  indeed,  was  gayety  itself .  He  kept  up  an  inces- 
sant war  with  Rose  ;  he  had  a  number  of  little  jokes  going  at 
the  vicar's  expense,  which  kept  that  good  man  m  a  half  pro- 
testing chuckle  most  of  the  way;  he  cleared  every  gate  that 
presented  itself  in  first-rate  Oxford  form,  and  climbed  every 
point  of  rock  with  a  cat-like  agUity  that  set  the  girls  scoffing 
at  the  pretense  of  invalidism  under  which  he  had  foisted  him- 
self on  Whindale.  ,  .  J 
"How  fine  all  this  black  purple  is  !"  he  cried,  as  they  topped 
the  ridge,  and  the  Shanmoor  vaUey  lay  before  them  bounded 
on  the  other  side  byline  after  line  of  mountain  Wetherlam 
and  the  Pikes  and  Fairfield  in  the  far  distance,  piled  somberiy 
under  a  somber  sky.  ' '  I  had  grown  quite  tired  of  the  sun.  He 
had  done  his  best  to  make  you  commonplace." 

•'Tired  of  the  sun  in  Westmoreland ?"  said  Catherine,  with 
a  little  mocking  wonder.    ' '  How  wanton,  how  prodigal  ! 

"  Does  it  deserve  a  Nemesis  ?"  he  said,  laughing.  Drown- 
ing from  now  till  I  depart  ?  No  matter.   I  can  bear  a  second 


IIG 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


deluge  with  an  even  mind.  On  this  enchanted  soil  all  things 
are  welcome  !" 

She  looked  up,  smihng  at  his  vehemence,  taking  it  all  as  a 
tribute  to  the  country,  or  to  his  own  recovered  health.  He 
stood  leaning  on  his  stick,  gazing,  however,  not  at  the  view 
but  at  her.  The  others  stood  a  Httle  way  off  laughing  and  chat- 
tering. As  their  eyes  met,  a  strange  new  pulse  leaped  up  in 
Catherine. 

''The  wind  is  very  boisterous  here,"  she  said,  with  a  shiver. 
''  I  think  we  ought  to  be  going  on." 

And  she  hurried  up  to  the  others,  nor  did  she  leave  their 
shelter  till  they  were  in  sight  of  the  little  Shanmoor  inn,  where 
they  were  to  have  tea.  The  pony-carriage  was  already  stand- 
ing in  front  of  the  inn,  and  Mrs.  Thornburgh's  gray  curls  shak- 
ing at  the  window. 

WiUiam  !"  she  shouted,  "  bring  them  in.  Tea  is  just  ready, 
and  Mr.  Ruskin  was  here  last  week,  and  there  are  ever  so  many 
new  names  in  the  visitors'  book !" 

While  the  girls  went  in  Elsmere  stood  looking  a  moment  at 
the  inn,  the  bridge,  and  the  village.  It  was  a  characteristic 
Westmoreland  scene.  The  low,  whitewashed  inn,  with  its 
newly  painted  sign-board,  was  to  his  right,  the  pony  at  the  door 
lazily  flicking  off  the  flies  and  dropping  its  greedy  nose  in  search 
of  the  grains  of  corn  among  the  cobbles ;  to  his  left  a  gray  stone 
bridge  over  a  broad,  light-filled  river;  beyond,  a  little  huddled 
village  backed  by  and  apparently  built  out  of  the  great  slate 
quarry  which  represented  the  only  industry  of  the  neighbor- 
hood, and  a  tiny  towered  church— the  scene  on  the  Sabbath  of 
Mr.  Mayhew's  ministrations.  Beyond  the  village,  shoulders  of 
purple  fell,  and  behind  the  inn  masses  of  broken  crag  rising  at 
the  very  head  of  the  valley  into  a  fine  pike,  along  whose  jagged 
edges  the  rain-clouds  were  trailing.  There  was  a  little  lurid 
storm-light  on  the  river,  but,  in  general,  the  color  was  ail  dark 
and  rich,  the  white  inn  gleaming  on  a  green  and  purple  back- 
ground. He  took  it  all  into  his  heart,  covetously,  greedily, 
trying  to  fix  it  there  forever. 

Presently  he  was  called  in  by  the  vicar,  and  found  a  tempt- 
ing tea  spread  in  a  light  upper  room,  v/here  Agjnes  and  Rose 
were  already  making  fun  of  the  chromo-lithographs  and  rum- 
maging the  visitors'  book.  The  scrambling,  chattering  meal 
passed  Uke  a  flash.  At  th  i  beginning  of  it  Mrs.  Thornburgh's 
small  gray  eyes  had  traveled  restlessly  from  face  to  face,  as 


EOBKET  ELSMERE.  Ill 

though  to  say  :  What— no  news  yet  ?  Nothing  happened  ?" 
As  for  Elsmere,  though  it  seemed  to  him  at  the  time  one  of 
the  brightest  moments  of  existence,  he  remembered  little  after- 
ward but  the  scene  :  the  pecuhar  clean  mustiness  of  the  room 
only  just  opened  for  the  summer  season,  a  print  of  the  Princess 
of  Wales  on  the  walls  opposite  him,  a  stuffed  fox  over  the 
mantel-piece,  Eose's  golden  head  and  heavy  amber  necklace, 
and  the  figure  at  the  vicar's  right,  in  a  gown  of  a  little  dark- 
blue  check,  the  broad  hat  shading  the  white  brow  and  luminous 
eyes.  When  tea  was  over  they  lounged  out  on  the  bridge. 
There  was  to  be  no  long  lingering,  however.  The  clouds  were 
deepening,  the  rain  could  not  be  far  off.  But  if  they  started 
soon  they  could  probably  reach  home  before  it  came  down.  Els- 
mere and  Kose  hung  over  the  gray  stone  parapet,  nottled  with 
the  green  and  gold  of  innumerable  mosses,  and  looked  down 
through  a  fringe  of  Enghsh  maiden-hair  growing  along  the 
coping,  into  the  clear  eddies  of  the  stream.  Suddenly  he  raised 
himself  on  one  elbow,  and,  shading  his  eyes,  looked  to  where 
the  vicar  and  Catherine  were  standing  in  front  of  the  inn, 
touched  for  an  instant  by  a  beam  of  fitful  light  sHpping  between 
two  great  rain-clouds. 

How  well  that  hat  and  dress  becomes  your  sister!"  he  said, 
the  words  breaking,  as  it  were,  from  his  lips. 

"  Do  you  think  Catherine  pretty?"  said  Rose,  with  an  excel- 
lent pretense  of  innocence,  detaching  a  little  pebble  and  fling- 
ing it  harmlessly  at  a  water-wagtail  balancing  on  a  stone  below. 

He  flushed.  Pretty !  You  might  as  well  apply  the  word  to 
your  mountains,  to  the  exquisite  river,  to  that  great  purple 
peak !" 

' '  Yes, "  thought  Rose,  ^  *  she  is  not  unlike  that  high  cold  peak !" 
But  her  girlish  sympathy  conquered  her;  it  was  very  exciting, 
and  she  liked  Elsmere.  She  turned  back  to  him,  her  face  over- 
spread with  a  quite  irrepressible  smile.  He  reddened  still  more, 
then  they  stared  into  each  other's  eyes,  and  without  a  word 
more  understood  each  other  perfectly. 

Rose  held  out  her  hand  to  him  with  a  little  brusque  bon  com- 
arade  gesture.    He  pressed  it  warmly  in  his. 

*^That  was  nice  of  you!"  he  cried.  "Very  nice  of  you! 
Friends  then?" 

She  nodded  and  drew  her  hand  away  just  as  Agnes  and  the 
vicar  disturbed  them. 


112 


ROBERT  ELSMEIUC. 


Meanwhile  Catherine  was  standing  by  the  side  of  the  pony- 
carriage,  watching  Mrs.  Thornburgh's  i)reparations. 

You're  sure  you  don't  mind  driving  home  alone?"  she  said, 
in  a  troubled  voice.      Mayn't  I  go  with  you?" 

My  dear,  certainly  not !  As  if  I  wasn't  accustomed  to  going 
about  alone  at  my  time  of  life !  No,  no,  my  dear,  you  go  and 
have  your  walk;  you'll  get  home  before  the  rain.  Ready, 
James." 

The  old  vicarage  factotum  could  not  imagine  what  made  his 
charge  so  anxious  to  be  off.  She  actually  took  the  whip  out  of 
his  hand  and  gave  a  flick  to  the  pony,  who  swerved  and  started 
off  in  a  way  which  would  have  made  his  mistress  clamorously 
nervous  under  any  other  circumstances.  Catherine  stood  look- 
ing after  her. 

*'Now,  then,  right  about  facQ  and  quick  march!"  exclaimed 
the  vicar.  We've  got  to  race  that  cloud  over  the^Pike.'  It'll 
be  up  with  us  in  no  time." 

Off  they  started,  and  were  soon  climbing  the  slippery  green 
slopes,  or  crushing  through  the  fern  of  the  fell  they  had  de- 
scended earlier  in  the  afternoon.  Catherine  for  some  little  way 
walked  last  of  the  party,  the  vicar  in  front  of  her.  Then 
Slsmere  picked  a  stone-crop,  quarrelled  over  its  precise  name 
with  Rose,  and  waited  for  Catherine,  who  had  a  very  close  and 
familiar  knowledge  of  the  botany  of  the  district. 

"  You  have  crushed  me,"  he  said,  laughing,  as  he  put  the 
flower  carefully  into  his  pocket-book;  *'but  it  is  worth  while  to 
be  crushed  by  any  one  who  can  give  so  much  ground  for  their 
knowledge.  How  you  do  know  your  mountains— from  their 
peasants  to  their  plants?" 

''I  have  had  more  than  ten  able-bodied  years  living  and 
scrambling  among  them,"  she  said,  smiling. 

Do  you  keep  up  all  your  visits  and  teaching  in  the  winter?" 

"Oh,  not  so  much,  of  course!  But  people  must  be  helped 
and  taught  in  the  winter.  And  our  winter  is  often  not  as  hard 
as  yours  down  south." 

Do  you  go  on  with  that  night-school  in  Poll  Ghyll,  for  in- 
stance?" he  said,  with  another  note  in  his  voice. 

Catherine  looked  at  him  and  colored.  Rose  has  been  tell- 
ing tales,"  she  said.  ''I  wish  she  would  leave  my  proceedings 
alone.  Poll  Ghyll  is  the  family  bone  of  contention  at  present. 
Yes,  I  go  on  with  it.    I  always  take  a  lantern  when  the  night 


jROBERT  ELSMERE. 


113 


is  dark,  and  I  know  every  inch  of  the  ground,  and  Bob  is  al- 
ways with  me;  aren't  you,  Bob?" 

And  she  stooped  down  to  pat  the  colley  beside  her.  Bob 
looked  up  at  her,  bhnking  with  a  proudly  confidential  air  as 
though  to  remind  her  that  there  were  a  good  many  such  secrets 
between  them. 

' '  I  Hke  to  fancy  you  with  your  lantern  in  the  dark, "  he  cried, 
the  hidden  emotion  piercing  through,  ^ '  the  night  wind  blowing 
about  you,  the  black  mountains  to  the  right  and  left  of  you, 
some  little  stream,  perhaps,  running  beside  you  for  company, 
your  dog  guarding  you,  and  all  good  angels  going  with  you." 

She  flushed  still  more  deeply ;  the  impetuous  words  affected 
her  strangely. 

^' Don't  fancy  it  at  all,"  she  said,  laughing.  *'It  is  a  very 
small  and  very  natural  incident  of  one's  life  here.  Look  back, 
Mr.  Elsmere ;  the  rain  has  beaten  us !" 

He  looked  back  and  saw  the  great  Pike  over  Shanmoor  vil. 
lage  blotted  out  in  a  moving  deluge  of  rain.  The  quarry  oppo^ 
site  on  the  mountain-side  gleamed  green  and  vivid  against  the 
ink-black  fell;  some  clothes  hanging  out  in  the  field  below  th(^ 
church  flapped  wildly  hither  and  thither  in  the  sudden  gale,  the 
only  spot  of  white  in  the  prevailing  blackness ;  children  with 
their  petticoats  over  their  heads  ran  homeward  along  the  road 
the  walking  party  had  just  quitted;  the  stream  beneath,  spread- 
ing broadly  through  the  fields,  shivered  and  wrinkled  under  the 
blast.  Up  it  came,  and  the  rain  mists  with  it.  In  another  min- 
ute the  storm  was  beating  in  their  faces. 

''Caught!"  cried  Elsmere,  in  a  voice  almost  of  jubilation. 
*'  Let  me  help  you  into  your  cloak.  Miss  Leyburn." 

He  flung  it  round  her,  and  struggled  into  his  own  mackintosh. 
The  vicar  in  front  of  them  turned  and  waved  his  hand  to  them 
in  laughing  despair,  then  hurried  after  the  others,  evidently 
with  the  view  of  performing  for  them  the  same  office  Elsmere 
had  just  performed  for  Catherine. 

Bobert  and  his  companion  struggled  on  for  awhile  in  a  breath- 
less silence  against  the  deluge,  which  seemed  to  beat  on  them 
from  all  sides.  He  walked  behind  her,  sheltering  her  by  his 
tall  form  and  his  big  umbrella  as  much  as  he  could.  His  pulses 
were  all  aglow  with  the  joy  of  the  storm.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  he  rejoiced  with  the  thirsty  grass  over  which  the  rain 
streams  were  rimning,  that  his  heart  fiUed  with  the  shrunken 
becks  as  th^  flood  leaped  along  them.  Let  the  elements  thunder 


114 


ROBERT  EliiMERK. 


and  rave  as  they  pleased.  Could  he  not  at  a  word  bring  the 
light  of  that  face,  those  eyes,  upon  him?  Was  she  not  his  for 
a  moment  in  the  rain  and  the  solitude,  as  she  had  never  been  in 
the  commonplace  sunshine  of  their  valley  life? 

Suddenly  he  heard  an  exclamation,  and  saw  her  nm  on  in 
front  of  him.  What  was  the  matter?  Then  he  noticed  for  the 
first  time  that  Rose,  far  ahead,  was  still  walking  in  her  cotton 
dress.  The  Uttle  scatteil3rain  had,  of  course,  forgotten  her 
cloak,  ^ut,  monstrous !  There  was  Catherine  stripping  off  her 
own,  Kose  refusing  it.  In  vain.  The  sister's  determined  arms 
put  it  round  her.  Rose  is  enwrapped,  buttoned  up  before  she 
knows  where  she  is,  and  Catherine  falls  back,  pursued  by  some 
shaft  from  Rose,  more  sarcastic  than  grateful,  to  judge  by  the 
tone  of  it. 

Miss  Ley  bum,  what  have  you  been  doing?'' 

Rose  had  forgotten  her  cloak,"  she  said  briefly.      She  has 

a  very  thin  dress  on,  and  she  is  the  only  one  of  us  that  takes 

cold  easily." 

You  must  take  my  mackintosh,"  he  said  at  once. 
She  laughed  in  his  face. 

As  if  I  should  do  anything  of  the  sort !" 
' '  You  must, "  he  said,  quietly  stripping  it  off.    ' '  Do  you  think 
that  you  are  always  to  be  allowed  to  go  through  the  world  tak- 
ing thought  of  other  people  and  allowing  no  one  to  take  thought 
for  you?" 
He  held  it  out  to  her. 
No,  no  I   This  is  absurd,  Mr.  Elsmere.   You  are  not  strong 
yet.    And  I  have  often  told  you  that  nothing  hurts  me." 

He  hung  it  deliberately  over  his  arm.  ' '  Very  well,  then,  there 
it  stays !" 

And  they  hurried  on  again,  she  biting  her  lip  and  on  the  point 
of  laughter. 

''Mr.  Elsmere,  be  sensible!"  she  said,  presently,  her  look 
changing  to  one  of  real  distress.  ''  I  should  never  forgive  my- 
self if  you  got  a  chill  after  your  illness !" 

You  will  not  be  called  upon,"  he  said,  in  the  most  matter-of- 
fact  tone.  "  Men's  coats  are  made  to  keep  out  weather,"  and 
he  pointed  to  his  own,  closely  buttoned  up.  '*Your  dress— I 
can't  help  being  disrespectful  under  the  circumstances— will  be 
wet  through  in  ten  minutes." 

Another  silence.    Then  he  overtook  her. 
Please,  Miss  Leybum,'l^he  said,  stopping  her. 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


315 


There  was  an  instant's  mute  contest  between  them.  The  rain 
splashed  on  the  umbrellas.  She  could  not  help  it,  she  broke 
down  into  the  merriest,  most  musical  laugh  of  a  child  that  can 
hardly  stop  itself,  and  he  joined. 

Mr.  Elsmere,  you  are  ridiculous !" 

But  she  submitted.  He  put  the  mackintosh  round  her,  think 
ing,  bold  man,  as  she  turned  her  rosy,  rain-dewed  face  to  him, 
of  Wordsworth's  "  Louisa,"  and  the  poet's  cry  of  longing. 

And  yet  he  was  not  so  bold  either.  Even  at  this  moment  of 
exhilaration  he  was  conscious  of  a  bar  that  checked  and  arrested. 
Something— what  was  it?— drew  invisiblehnesof  defense  about 
her.  A  sort  of  divine  fear  of  her  mingled  with  his  rising  pas- 
sion.   Let  him  not  risk  too  much  too  soon. 

They  walked  on  briskly,  and  were  soon  on  the  Whindale  side 
of  the  pass.  To  the  left  of  them  the  great  hollow  of  High  Fell 
unfolded,  storm-beaten  and  dark,  the  river  issuing  from  the 
heart  of  it  like  an  angry  voice. 

What  a  change !"  he  said,  coming  up  with  her  as  the  path 
widened.  "  How  impossible  that  it  should  have  been  only  yes- 
terday afternoon  I  was  lounging  up  here  in  the  heat,  by  the 
pool  where  the  stream  rises,  watching  the  white  butterflies  on 
the  turf,  and  reading  '  Laodamia!'  " 

"  '  Laodamia !' "  she  said,  half  sighing  as  she  caught  the 
name.    "  Is  it  one  of  those  you  like  best  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  bending  forward  that  he  might  see  her  in 
^pite  of  the  umbrella.  ''How  superb  it  is— the  roll,  the 
majesty  of  it ;  the  severe  chastened  beauty  of  the  main  feeling, 
the  individual  lines! " 

And  he  quoted  ]ixie  after  line,  Ungering  over  the  cadences. 

''It  was  my  father's  favorite  of  .all,"  she  said,  in  the  low, 
vibrating  voice  of  memory.  "He  said  the  last  verse  to  me  the 
day  before  he  died." 

Robert  recalled  it.  r 

Yet  tears  to  human  suffering  are  due, 
And  mortal  hopes  defeated  and  overthrown 
Are  mourned  by  man,  and  not  by  man  alone 
As  fondly  we  believe." 

Poor  Richard  Leyburn !   Yet  where  had  the  defeat  lain  ? 
' '  Was  he  happy  in  his  school  life  ?"  he  asked,  gently.    ' '  Wa<? 
teaching  what  he  liked  ?" 
"Oh,  yes— only— "   Catherine  paused  and  then  added,  hur 


116 


ROBERT  JSLSMERE.- 


riedly,  as  though  drawn  in  spite  of  herself  by  the  grave  sympa- 
thy of  his  look,  "  I  never  knew  anybody  so  good  who  thought 
himself  of  so  httle  account.  He  always  believed  that  he  had 
missed  everything,  wasted  everything,  and  that  anybody 
else  would  have  made  infinitely  more  out  of  his  life.  He  wag. 
always  blaming,  scourging  himself.  And  all  the  time  he  was 
the  noblest,  purest,  most  devoted—" 

She  stopped.  Her  voice  had  passed  beyond  her  control. 
Elsmere  was  startled  by  the  feeling  she  showed.  Evidently  he 
had  touched  one  of  the  few  sore  places  in  this  pure  heart.  It 
was  as  though  her  memory  of  her  father  had  in  it  elements  of 
almost  intolerable  pathos,  as  though  the  child's  brooding  love 
and  loyalty  were  in  perpetual  protest,  even  now  after  this 
lapse  of  years,  against  the  verdict  which  an  overscrupulous, 
desponding  soul  had  pronounced  upon  itself.  Did  she  feel  that 
he  had  gone  uncomf orted  out  of  Hfe— even  by  her— even  by  re- 
ligion ?— was  that  the  sting  ? 

Oh,  I  can  understand !"  he  said,  reverently— I  can  under- 
stand. I  have  come  across  it  once  or  twice,  that  fierce  self- 
judgment  of  the  good.  It  is  the  most  stirring  and  hiunbling 
thing  in  life."  Then  his  voice  dropped.  ''And  after  the  last 
conflict— the  last  'quailing  breath'— the  last  onslaughts  of 
doubt  or  fear— think  of  the  Vision  waiting— the  Eternal  Com- 
fort: 

'  Oh,  my  only  Light ! 
It  can  not  be 
That  I  am  he 
On  whom  Thy  tempests  fell  at  night!' " 

The  words  fell  from  the  softened  voice  like  noble  music. 

There  was  a  pause.  Th^  Catherine  raised  her  eyes  to  his. 
They  swam  in  tears,  and  yet  the  unspoken  thanks  in  them 
were  radiance  itself.  It  seemed  to  him  as  though  she  came 
closer  to  bim,  like  a  child  to  an  elder  who  has  soothed  and 
satisfied  an  inward  smart. 

They  walked  on  in  silence.  They  were  just  nearing  the 
swollen  river  which  roared  below  them.  On  the  opposite  bank 
two  umbrellas  were  vanishing  through  the  field  gate  into  the 
road,  but  the  vicar  had  turned  and  was  waiting  for  them. 
They  could  see  his  becloaked  figure  leaning  on  his  stick  through 
the  fight  wreaths  of  mist  that  floated  above  the  tumbling 
stream.  The  abnormally  heavy  rain  had  ceased,  but  the  clouds 
seemed  to  be  dragging  along  the  very  floor  of  the  valley. 


KOBERT  ELSMERE. 


117 


The  stepping-stones  came  in  sight.  He  leaped  on  the  first 
and  held  out  his  hand  to  her.  When  they  started  she  would 
have  refused  his  help  with  scorn.  Now,  after  a  moment's 
hesitation  she  yielded,  and  he  felt  her  dear  weight  on  him  as 
he  guided  her  carefully  from  stone  to  stone.  In  reality  it  is 
both  difficult  and  risky  to  he  helped  over  stepping-stones. 
You  had  much  better  manage  for  yourself;  and  half-way 
through  Catherine  had  a  mind  to  tell  him  so.  But  the  words 
died  on  her  lips,  which  smiled  instead.  He  could  have  wished 
that  passage  from  stone  to  stone  could  have  lasted  forever. 
She  was  wrapped  up  grotesquely  in  his  mackintosh;  her  hat 
was  all  bedraggled;  her  gloves  dripping  in  his;  and  in  spite  of 
all  he  could  have  vowed  that  anything  so  lovely  as  that  deli- 
cately cut,  gravely  smiling  face,  swaying  above  the  rushing 
brown  water,  was  never  seen  in  Westmoreland  wilds  before. 

''It  is  clearing,"  he  cried,  with  ready  optimism,  as  they 
reached  the  bank.  ''We  shall  get  our  picnic  to-morrow  after 
all— we  must  get  it !  Promise  me  it  shall  be  fine— and  you  will 
be  there !" 

The  vicar  was  only  fifty  yards  away,  waiting  for  them  against 
the  field  gate.  But  Robert  held  her  eagerly,  imperiously— and 
it  seemed  to  her,  her  head  was  still  dizzy  with  the  water. 

"  Promise!"  he  repeated,  his  voice  dropping. 
She  could  not  stop  to  think  of  the  absurdity  of  promising  for 
Westmoreland  weather.   She  could  only  say,  faintly,  "Yes!" 
and  so  release  her  hand. 

"You  are  pretty  wet!"  said  the  vicar,  looking  from  one  to 
the  other  with  a  curiosity  which  Robert's  quick  sense  divined 
at  once  was  directed  to  something  else  than  the  mere  condition 
of  their  garments.  But  Catherine  noticed  nothing;  she  walked 
on  wrestling  blindly  with  she  knew  not  what  till  they  reached 
the  vicarage  gate.  There  stood  Mrs.  Thornburgh,  the  light 
drizzle  into  which  the  rain  had  declined  beating  unheeded  on 
her  curls  and  ample  shoulders.  She  stared  at  Robert's  drenched 
condition,  but  he  gave  her  no  time  to  make  remarks. 

"Don't  take  it  off,"  he  said,  with  a  laughing  wave  of  the  hand 
to  Catherine;  "I  will  come  for  it  to-morrow  morning." 

And  he  ran  up  the  drive,  conscious  at  last  that  it  might  be 
prudent  to  get  himself  into  something  less  sponge-like  than  his 
present  attire  as  quickly  as  possible. 

The  vicar  followed  him. 


UOliEUT  ELSMEEE. 


''Don't  keep  Catherine,  my  dear.  There's  nothing  to  tell. 
Nobody's  the  worse." 

Mrs.  Thornburgh  took  no  heed.  Opening  the  iron  gate,  she 
went  through  it  on  to  the  deserted  rain-beaten  road,  laid  both 
her  hands  on  Catherine's  shoulders,  and  looked  her  straight  in 
the  eyes.  The  vicar's  anxious  hint  was  useless.  She  could 
contain  herself  no  longer.  She  had  watched  them  from  the 
vicarage  come  down  the  fell  together,  bad  seen  them  cross  the 
stepping-stones,  lingeringly,  hand  in  hand. 

''My  dear  Catherine  I"  she  cried,  effusively  kissing  Cathe- 
rine's glowing  cheek  under  the  shelter  of  the  lauristinus  that 
made  a  bower  of  the  gate.    ''My  dear  Catherine !" 

Catherine  gazed  at  her  in  astonishment.  Mrs.  Thornburgh's 
eyes  were  all  alive,  and  swarming  with  questions.  If  it  had 
been  Kose  she  would  have  let  them  out  in  one  fell  flight.  But 
Catherine's  personality  kept  her  in  awe.  And  after  a  second, 
as  the  two  stood  together,  a  deep  flush  rose  on  Catherine's  feice, 
and  an  expression  of  half -frightened  apology  dawned  in  Mrs. 
Thornburgh's. 

Catherine  drew  herself  away.  ^'Will  you  please  give  Mr. 
Elsmere  his  mackintosh?"  she  said,  taking  it  off;  "I  shan't 
want  it  this  little  way." 

And  putting  it  on  Mrs.  Thornburgh's  arm  she  turned  away, 
walking  quickly  round  the  bend  of  the  road. 

Mrs.  Thornburgh  watched  her  open-mouthed,  and  moved 
slowly  back  to  the  house  in  a  state  of  complete  collapse. 

'' I  always  knew  " — she  said,  with  a  groan — "I  always  knew 
it  would  never  go  right  if  it  was  Catherine!  Why  was  it 
Catherine?" 

And  she  went  in,  still  hurling  at  Providence  the  same  vindic- 
tive query. 

Meanwhile  Catherine,  hurrying  home,  the  receding  flush 
leaving  a  sudden  pallor  behind  it,  was  twisting  her  hands 
before  her  in  a  kind  of  agony. 

' '  What  have  I  been  doing  ?"  she  said  to  herself.  ' '  What  have 
I  been  doing  ?" 

At  the  gate  of  Burwood  something  made  her  look  up.  She 
saw  the  girls  in  their  own  room — Agnes  was  standing  behind, 
Rose  had  evidently  rushed  forward  to  see  Catherine  come  in, 
and  now  retreated  as  suddenly  when  she  saw  her  sister  look  up. 

Catherine  understood  it  all  in  an  instant.  "They,  too,  are 
©n  the  watch,"  she  thought  to  herself,  bitterly.   The  strong 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


110 


reticent  nature  was  outraged  by  the  perception  that  she  had 
been  for  days  the  unconscious  actor  in  a  drama  of  which  her 
sisters  and  Mrs.  Thornburgh  had  been  the  silent  and  intelligent 
spectators. 

She  came  down  presently  from  her  room,  very  white  and 
quiet,  admitted  that  she  was  tired,  and  said  nothing  to  any- 
body. Agnes  and  Rose  noticed  the  change  at  once,  whispered 
to  each  other  when  they  found  an  opportunity,  and  foreboded 
ill. 

After  their  tea-supper,  Catherine,  unperceived,  slipped  out 
of  the  little  lane  gate,  and  climbed  the  stony  path  above  the 
house  leading  on  to  the  fell.  The  rain  had  ceased,  but  the 
clouds  hung  low  and  threatening,  and  the  close  air  was  satu- 
rated with  moisture.  As  she  gained  the  bare  fell,  sounds  of 
water  met  her  on  all  sides.  The  river  cried  hoarsely  to  her  from 
below,  the  becks  in  the  little  ghylls  were  full  and  thunderous ; 
and  beside  her  over  the  smooth  grass  slid  many  a  new-born 
rivulet,  the  child  of  the  storm,  and  destined  to  vanish  with  the 
night.  Catherine's  soul  went  out  to  welcome  the  gray  damp  of 
the  hills.  She  knew  them  best  in  this  mood.  They  were  thus 
most  her  own. 

She  climbed  on  till  at  last  she  reached  the  crest  of  the  ridge. 
Behind  her  lay  the  valley,  and  on  its  further  side  the  fells  she 
had  crossed  in  the  afternoon.  Before  her  spread  a  long  green 
vale,  compared  to  which  Whindale,  with  its  white  road,  its 
church,  and  parsonage,  and  scattered  houses,  was  the  great 
world  itself.  Marrisdale  had  no  road  Bnd  not  a  single  house. 
As  Catherine  descended  into  it  she  saw  not  a  sign  of  human 
life.  There  were  sheep  grazing  in  the  silence  of  the  long  June 
twihght ;  the  blackish  walls  ran  down  and  up  again,  dividing 
the  green  hollow  with  melancholy  uniformity.  Here  and  there 
was  a  sheepfold,  suggesting  the  bleakness  of  winter  nights; 
and  here  and  there  a  rough  stone  barn  for  storing  fodder.  And 
beyond  the  vale,  eastward  and  northward,  Catherine  looked  out 
upon  a  wild  sea  of  moors  wrapped  in  mists,  sullen  and  storm- 
beaten,  while  to  the  left  the  clouds  hung  deepest  and  inkiest 
over  the  high  points  of  the  Ullswater  mountains. 

When  she  was  once  below  the  pass,  man  and  his  world  were 
shut  out.  The  girl  figure  in  the  blue  cloak  and  hood  was  abso- 
lutely alone.  She  descended  till  she  reached  a  point  where  a 
little  stream  had  been  turned  into  a  stone  trough  for  cattle. 
Abo  v<&  it  stood  a  gnarled  and  solitary  thorn.    Catherine  sunk 


120 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


down  on  a  rock  at  the  foot  of  the  tree.  It  was  a  seat  slie 
knew  well ;  she  had  hngered  there  with  her  father ;  she  had 
thought  and  prayed  there  as  girl  and  woman ;  she  had  wres- 
tled there  often  with  despondency  or  grief,  or  some  of  those 
subtle  spiritual  temptations  which  were  all  her  pure  youth  had 
known,  till  the  inner  light  had  dawned  again,  and  the  humble 
enraptured  soul  could  almost  have  traced  amid  the  shadows  of 
that  dappled  moorland  world,  between  her  and  the  clouds,  the 
white  stoles  and    sleeping  wings"  of  ministering  spirits. 

But  no  wrestle  had  ever  been  so  hard  as  this.  And  with 
what  fierce  suddenness  had  it  come  upon  her!  She  looked 
back  over  the  day  with  bewilderment  She  could  see  dimly 
that  the  Catherine  who  had  started  on  that  Shanmoor  walk 
had  been  full  of  vague  misgivings  other  than  those  concerned 
with  a  few  neglected  duties.  There  had  been  an  undefined 
sense  of  unrest,  of  difference,  of  broken  equilibrium.  She  had 
shown  it  in  the  way  in  which  at  first  she  had  tried  to  keep  her- 
self and  Robert  Elsmere  apart. 

And  then— beyond  the  departure  from  Shanmoor  she 
seemed  to  loose  the  thread  of  her  own  history.  Memory  was 
drowned  in  a  feeling  to  which  the  resisting  soul  as  yet  would 
give  no  name.  She  laid  her  head  on  her  knees  trembling. 
She  heard  again  the  sweet,  imperious  tones  with  which  he 
broke  down  her  opposition  about  the  cloak;  she  felt  again  the 
grasp  of  his  steadying  hand  on  hers. 

But  it  was  only  for  a  very  few  minutes  that  she  drifted  thus. 
She  raised  her  head  again,  scourging  herself  in  shame  and  self- 
reproach,  recapturing  the  empire  of  the  soul  with  a  strong  ef- 
fort. She  set  herself  to  a  stern  analysis  of  the  whole  situation. 
Clearly,  Mrs.  Thornburgh  and  her  sisters  had  been  aware  for 
some  indefinite  time  that  Mr.  Elsmere  had  been  showing  a 
pecuhar  interest  in  her.  Their  eyes  had  been  open.  She  real- 
ized now  with  hot  cheeks  how  many  meetings  and  tete-d-tetes 
had  been  managed  for  her  and  Elsmere,  and  how  complacently 
she  had  fallen  into  Mrs.  Thornburgh's  snares. 

''Have  I  encouraged  him? "  she  asked  herself,  sternly. 
Yes,"  cried  the  smarting  conscience. 

' '  Can  I  marry  him  ?" 

''No,"  said  conscience  again;  '*not  without  deserting  your 
post,  not  without  betraying  your  trust." 

What  post?  What  trust?  Ah,  conscience  was  ready  enough 
with  the  answer.   Was  it  not  just  ten  years  since,  as  a  girl  of 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


121 


sixteen,  prematurely  old  and  thoughtful,  she  had  sat  beside 
her  father's  deathbed,  whie  her  delicate  hysterical  mother,  in 
a  state  of  utter  collapse,  was  kept  away  from  him  by  the  doc- 
tors? She  could  see  the  drawn  face,  the  restless,  melancholy 
eyes.  Catherine,  my  darling,  you  are  the  strong  one.  They 
will  look  to  you.  Support  them."  And  she  could  see  in  im- 
agination her  own  young  face  pressed  against  the  pillows. 
''Yes,  father,  always— always!"— '' Catherine,  life  is  harder, 
the  narrow  way  narrower  than  ever.  I  die"— and  memory 
caught  still  the  piteous,  long-drawn  breath  by  which  the  voice 
was  broken—''  in  much— much  perplexity  about  many  things. 
You  have  a  clear  soul,  an  iron  will.  Strengthen  the  others. 
Bring  them  safe  to  the  day  of  account."— "  Yes,  father,  with 
God's  help.    Oh,  with  God's  help !" 

That  long-past  dialogue  is  clear  and  sharp  to  her  now,  as 
though  it  were  spoken  afresh  in  her  ears.  And  how  has  she 
kept  her  pledge?  She  looks  back  humbly  on  her  life  of  inces- 
sant devotion,  on  the  time  of  long  dependence  which  has 
bound  to  her  her  weak  and  widowed  mother,  on  her  relations 
to  her  sisters,  the  efforts  she  has  ^made  to  train  them  in  the 
spirit  of  her  father's  life  and  beliefs. 

Have  those  efforts  reached  their  term?  Can  it  be  said  in 
any  sense  that  her  work  is  done,  her  promise  kept? 

"Oh,  no— no!"  she  cries  to  herself  with  vehemence.  Her 
mother  depends  on  her  every  day  and  hour  for  protection, 
comfort,  enjoyment.  The  girls  are  at  the  opening  of  life- 
Agnes  twenty,  Eose  eighteen,  with  all  experience  to  come. 
And  Eose— Ah!  at  the  thought  of  Eose,  Catherine's  heart  sinks 
deeper  and  deeper— she  feels  a  culprit  before  her  father's  mem- 
ory. What  is  it  has  gone  so  desperately  wrong  with  her  train- 
ing of  the  child !  Surely  she  has  given  love  enough,  anxious 
thought  enough,  and  here  is  Eose  only  jSghting  to  be  free 
from  the  yoke  of  her  father's  wishes,  from  the  galling  pressure 
of  the  family  tradition ! 

No.  Her  task  has  just  now  reached  its  most  difficult,  its 
most  critical  moment.    How  can  she  leave  it? ,  Impossible. 

What  claim  can  she  put  against  these  supreme  claims — of  her 
promise,  her  mother's  and  sisters'  need? 

His  claim?  Oh,  no— no!  She  admits  with  soreness  and 
humiliation  unspeakable  that  she  has  done  him  wrong.  If  he 
loves  her  she  has  opened  the  way  thereto;  she  confesses  in  her 
scrupulous  honesty  that  when  the  inevitable  withdrawal  comes 


122 


ROBERT  ELSMERE, 


she  will  have  given  him  cause  to  think  of  her  hardly,  slighting 
ly.  She  flinches  painfully  under  th#  thought.  But  it  does  not 
ah.er  the  matter.  This  girl,  brought  up  in  the  austerest  school 
of  Christian  self-government,  knows  nothing  of  the  divine 
rights  of  passion.  Half  modern  literature  is  based  upon  them. 
Catherine  Leybum  knew  of  no  supreme  right  but  the  right  of 
God  to  the  obedience  of  man. 

Oh,  and  besides— besides— it  is  impossible  that  he  should  care 
so  very  much.  The  time  is  so  short— there  is  so  little  in  her, 
comparatively,  to  attract  a  man  of  such  resource,  such  attain- 
ments, such  access  to  the  best  things  of  life. 

She  can  not— in  a  kind  of  terror — she  will  not,  believe  in  her 
own  love-worthiness,  in  her  own  power  to  deal  a  lasting  wound. 

Then  her  own  claim?  Has  she  any  claim,  has  the  poor 
bounding  heart  that  she  can  not  silence,  do  what  she  will 
through  all  this  strenuous  debate,  no  claim  to  satisfaction,  to  joy  7 

She  locks  her  hands  round  her  knees,  conscious,  poor  soul, 
that  the  worst  struggle  is  here^  the  quickest  agony  here.  But 
she  does  not  waver  for  an  instant.  And  her  weapons  are  all 
ready.  The  inmost  scv^  of^her  is  a  fortress  well  stored,  whence 
at  any  moment  the  mere  personal  craving  of  the  natural  man 
can  be  met,  repulsed,  slain. 

''Man  approacheth  so  much  the  nearer  unto  God  the  further 
he  departeth  from  all  earthly  comfort. " 

''If  thou  couldst  perfectly  annihilate  thyself  and  empty  thy- 
self of  aJl  created  love,  then  should  I  be  constrained  to  flow  into 
thee  with  greater  abundance  of  grace.^'' 

' '  When  thou  looJcest  unto  the  creature  the  sight  of  the  Creator 
is  withdrawn  from  thee. " 

''Learn  in  all  things  to  overcome  thyself  for  the  love  of  th]f 
Creator.  ..." 

She  presses  the  sentence  she  has  so  often  meditated  in  hei 
long  solitary  walks  about  the  mountains  into  her  heart.  And 
one  fragment  of  George  Herbert  especially  rings  in  her  ears, 
solemnly,  funereaBy— 

Thy  Saviour  sentenced  joy !" 

Ay,  sentenced  it  forever— the  personal  craving,  the  selfish 
need,  that  must  be  filled  at  any  cost.  In  the  silence  of  the 
descending  night  Catherine  quietly,  with  tears,  carried  out  that 
sentence,  and  slew  her  young  new-born  joy  at  the  feet  c  £  the 
Master. 


ROBEET  ELSIAERE. 


123 


She  stayed  where  she  was  for  awhile  after  this  crisis  in  a 
kind  of  bewilderment  and  stupor,  but  maintaining  a  perfect  out- 
T^ard  tranquility.    Then  there  was  a  curious  little  epilogue. 

It  is  all  over,"  she  said  to  herself,  tenderly.  But  he  has 
taught  me  so  much — he  has  been  so  good  to  me— he  is  so  good ! 
Let  me  take  to  my  heart  some  counsel— some  word  of  his,  and 
obey  it  sacredly— silently— for  these  days'  sake." 

Then  she  fell  thinking  again,  and  she  remembered  their  talk 
about  Eose.  How  often  she  had  pondered  it  since  1  In  this  in- 
tense trance  of  feeling  it  breaks  upon  her  finally  that  he  is  right. 
May  it  not  be  that  be  with  his  clearer  thought,  his  wider  knowl- 
edge of  life,  has  laid  his  finger  on  the  weak  point  in  her  guardian- 
ship of  her  sisters?  ^'I  have  tried  to  stifle  her  passion,"  she 
thought,  "to  push  it  out  of  the  way  as  a  hindrance.  Ought  I 
not  rather  to  have  taught  her  to  make  of  it  a  step  in  the  ladder 
— to  have  moved  her  to  bring  her  gifts  to  the  altar?  Oh,  let  me 
take  his  word  for  it— be  ruled  by  him  in  this  one  thing,  once!" 

She  bowed  her  face  on  her  knees  again.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  she  had  thrown  herself  at  Elsmere's  feet,  that  her  cheek 
was  pressed  against  that  young  brown  hand  of  his.  How  long 
the  moment  lasted  she  never  knew.  When  at  last  she  rose,  stiff 
and  weary,  darkness  was  overtaking  even  the  lingering  north- 
ern twilight.  The  angry  clouds  had  dropped  lower  on  the 
moors ;  a  few  sheep  beside  the  glimmering  stone  trough  showed 
dimly  white;  the  night  wind  was  sighing  through  the  unten- 
anted valley  and  the  scanty  branches  of  the  thorn.  White 
mists  lay  along  the  hollow  of  the  dale;  they  moved  weirdly 
under  the  breeze.  She  could  have  fancied  them  a  troop  of 
wraiths  to  whom  she  had  flung  her  warm  crushed  heart,  and 
who  were  bearing  it  away  for  burial. 

As  she  came  slowly  over  the  pass  and  down  the  Whindale 
side  of  the  fell  a  clear  purpose  was  in  her  mind.  Agnes  had 
talked  to  her  only  that  morning  of  Rose  and  Rose's  desire,  and 
she  had  received  the  news  with  her  habitual  silence. 

The  house  was  lighted  up  when  she  returned.  Her  mother 
had  gone  upstairs.  Catherine  went  to  her,  but  even  Mrs.  Ley- 
burn  discovered  that  she  looked  worn  out,  and  she  was  sent  off 
to  bed.  She  went  along  the  passage  quickly  to  Rose's  room, 
listening  a  moment  at  the  door.  Yes,  Rose  was  inside,  croon- 
ing some  German  song,  and  apparently  alone.  She  knocked 
and  went  in. 

Eose  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  her  bed,  a  white  dressing 


124 


KOBERT  ELSMERE. 


gown  over  Ijer  shoulders,  her  hair  in  a  glorious  confusion  all 
about  her.  She  was  swaying  backward  and  forward  dreamily 
singing,  and  she  started  up  when  she  saw  Catherine. 

''Roschen,"  said  the  elder  sister,  going  up  to  her  with  a 
tremor  of  heart,  and  putting  her  motherly  arms  round  the 
curly  golden  hair  and  the  half- covered  shoulders,  ''you  never 
told  me  of  that  letter  from  Manchester,  but  Agnes  did.  Did 
you  think,  Roschen,  I  would  never  let  you  have  your  way  ? 
Oh,  I  am  not  so  hard !  I  may  have  been  wrong — I  think  I  have 
been  wrong;  you  shall  do  what  you  will,  Roschen.  If  you 
want  to  go  I  will  ask  mother." 

Rose,  pushing  herself  away  with  one  hand,  stood  staring. 
She  was  struck  dumb  by  this  sudden  breaking  down  of  Cath- 
erine's long  resistance.  And  what  a  strange  white  Catherine ! 
What  did  it  mean  ?  Catherine  withdrew  her  arms  with  a  httle 
sigh  and  moved  away. 

"  I  just  came  to  tell  you  that,  Roschen,"  she  said,  ''but  I  am 
very  tired  and  must  not  stay." 

Catherine  "very  tired!"  Rose  thought  the  skies  must  be 
falling. 

"  Cathie  !"  she  cried,  leaping  forward  just  as  her  sister 
gained  the  door. '  "  Oh,  Cathie,  you  are  an  angel,  and  I  am  a 
nasty,  odious  little  wretch.  But  oh,  tell  me,  what  is  the  mat- 
ter ?" 

And  she  flung  her  strong  young  arms  round  .Catherine  with 
a  passionate  strength. 

The  elder  sister  struggled  to  release  herself. 

"  Let  me  go,  Rose,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  Oh,  you  must 
let  me  go !" 

And  wrenching  herself  free  she  drew  her  hand  over  her  eyes 
as  though  trying  to  drive  away  the  mist  from  them. 
"Good-night!   Sleep  well." 

And  she  disappeared,  shutting  the  door  noiselessly  after  her. 
Rose  stood  staring  a  moment,  and  then  swept  off  her  feet  by  a 
flood  of  many  feelings— remorse,  love,  fear,  sympathy— threw 
herself  face  downward  on  her  bed  and  burst  into  a  passion  of 
tears, 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

Catherine  was  much  perplexed  as  to  how  she  was  to  carry 
out  her  resolution;  she  pondered  over  it  through  much  of  the 
night    She  was  painfully  anxious  to  make  Elsmere  under- 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


125 


stand  without  a  scene,  without  a  definite  proposal  and  a  defin- 
ite rejection.  It  was  no  use  letting  things  drift.  Something 
brusque  and  marked  there  must  be.  She  quietly  made  her  dis- 
positions. 

It  was  long  after  the  gray,  vaporous  morning  stole  on  the 
hills  before  she  fell  lightly,  restlessly  asleep.  To  her  healthful 
youth  a  sleepless  night  was  almost  unknown.  She  wondered 
through  the  long  hours  of  it,  whether  now,  like  other  women, 
she  had  had  her  story,  passed  through  her  one  supreme  mo- 
ment, and  she  thought  of  one  or  two  worthy  old  maids  she 
knew  in  the  neighborhood  with  a  new  and  curious  pity.  Had 
any  of  them,  too,  gone  down  into  Marrisdale  and  come  up 
widowed,  indeed  ? 

All  through,  no  doubt,  there  was  a  certain  melancholy  pride 
in  her  own  spiritual  strength.  ''It  was  not  mine,"  she  would 
have  said,  with  perfect  sincerity,  ''but  God's."  StHl,  what- 
ever its  source,  it  had  been  there  at  command,  and  the  reflec- 
tion carried  with  it  a  sad  sense  of  security.  It  was  as  though 
a  soldier  after  his  first  skirmish  should  congratulate  himself  on 
being  bullet-proof. 

To  be  sure,  there  was  an  intense  trouble  and  disquiet  in  the 
thought  that  she  and  Mr.  Elsmere  must  meet  again,  probably 
many  times.  The  period  of  his  original  invitation  had  been 
warmly  extended  by  the  Thornburghs.  She  believed  he  meant 
to  stay  another  week  or  ten  days  in  the  valley.  But  in  the 
spiritual  exaltation  of  the  night  she  felt  herself  equal  to  any 
conflict,  any  endurance,  and  she  fell  asleep,  the  hands  clasped 
on  her  breast  expressing  a  kind  of  resolute  patience,  like  those 
of  some  old  sepulchral  monument. 

The  following  morning  Elsmere  examined  the  clouds  and  the 
barometer  with  abnormal  interest.  The  day  was  sunless  and 
lowering,  but  not  raining,  and  he  represented  to  Mrs.  Thorn- 
burgh,  with  a  hypocritical  assumption  of  the  practical  man, 
that  with  rugs  and  mackintoshes  it  was  possible  to  picnic  on 
the  dampest  grass.  But  he  could  not  make  out  the  vicar's  wife. 
She  was  all  sighs  and  flightiness.  She  "supposed  they  could 
go,"  and  "didn't  see  what  good  it  would  do  them;"  she  had 
twenty  different  views,  and  all  of  them  more  or  less  mixed  up 
with  pettishness,  as  to  the  best  place  for  a  picnic  on  a  gray  day ; 
and  at  last  she  grew  so  difficult  that  Eobert  suspected  some- 
thing desperately  wrong  with  the  household,  and  withdrew  lest 
male  guests  might  be  in  the  way.   Then  she  pursued  him  into 


126 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


the  study  and  thrust  a  Spectator  "  mto  his  hands^  begging 
him  to  convey  it  to  Burwood.  She  asked  it  lugubriously  with 
many  sighs,  her  cap  much  askew.  Kobert  could  have  kissed 
her,  curls  and  all,  one  moment  for  suggesting  the  errand,  and 
the  next  could  almost  have  signed  her  committal  to  the  county 
lunatic  asylum  with  a  clear  conscience.  What  an  extraordinary 
person  it  was ! 

Off  he  went,  however,  with  his  Spectator"  under  his  arm. 
whisthng.  Mrs.  Thornburgh  caught  the  sounds  through  an 
open  window,  and  tore  the  flannel  across  she  was  preparing  for 
a  mothers'  meeting  with  a  noise  like  the  rattle  of  musketry. 
Whistling  !  She  would  like  to  know  what  grounds  he  had  for 
it,  indeed  !  She  always  knew — she  always  said,  and  she 
would  go  on  saying— that  Catherine  Leybum  would  die  an 
old  maid. 

Meanwhile  Eobert  had  strolled  across  to  Birrwood  with  the 
lightest  heart.  By  way  of  keeping  all  his  anticipations  within 
the  bounds  of  strict  reason,  he  told  himself  that  it  was  impos- 
sible he  should  see  '*her"  in  the  morning.  She  was  always 
busy  in  the  morning. 

He  approached  the  house  as  a  Catholic  might  approach  a 
shrine.  That  was  her  window,  that  upper  casement  with  the 
little  banksia  rose  twining  round  it.  One  night,  when  he  and 
the  vicar  had  been  out  late  on  the  hills,  he  had  seen  a  light 
streaming  from  it  across  the  valley,  and  had  thought  how  the 
mistress  of  the  maiden  solitude  within  shone  ''in  a  naughty 
world." 

In  the  drive  he  met  Mrs.  Leyburn,  who  was  strolling  about 
the  garden.  She  at  once  informed  him  with  much  languid 
plaintiveness  that  Catherine  had  gone  to  Whinborough  for  the 
day,  and  would  not  be  able  to  join  the  picnic. 

Elsmere  stood  still. 

"GoneP^  he  cried.  ''But  it  was  all  arranged  with  her 
yesterday."  Mrs.  Leyburn  shrugged  her  should  n's.  She,  too, 
was  evidently  much  put  out. 

"So  I  told  her.  But  you  know,  Mr.  Elsmtre"— and  the 
gentle  widow  dropped  her  voice  as  though  communicating  a 
secret— "when  Catherine's  once  made  up  her  mind,  you  may 
as  well  try  to  dig  away  High  Fell  as  move  her.  She  asked  me 
to  tell  Mrs.  Thornburgh— will  you,  please  ?— that  she  found  it 
was  her  day  for  the  orphan  asylum,  and  one  or  two  other  pieces 
of  business,  and  she  must  go."  ^ 


121 


''Mrs.  ThornburghP^  And  not  a  word  for  him— for  him 
to  whom  she  had  given  her  promise  ?  She  had  gone  to  Whin- 
borough  to  avoid  him,  and  she  had  gone  in  the  brusquest  way, 
that  it  might  be  unmistakable. 

The  young  man  stood  with  his  hands  thrust  into  the  pockets 
of  his  long  coat,  hearing  with  half  an  ear  the  remarks  that 
Mrs.  Leyburn  was  making  to  him  about  the  picnic.  Was  the 
wretched  thing  to  come  ofi  after  all  ? 

He  was  too  proud  and  sore  to  suggest  an  alternative.  But 
Mrs.  Thornburgh  managed  that  for  him.  When  he  got  back 
he  told  the  vicar  in  the  hall  of  Miss  Leyburn's  flight  in  the 
fewest  possible  words,  and  then  his  long  legs  vanished  up  the 
stairs  in-a  twinkling,  and  the  door  of  his  room  shut  behind 
him.  A  few  minutes  afterward  Mrs.  Thornburgh's  shrill  voice 
was  heard  in  the  hall  calling  to  the  servant. 

''  Sarah,  let  the  hamper  alone.    Take  out  the  chickens." 

And  a  minute  after  the  vicar  came  up  to  his  door. 

''  Elsmere,  Mrs.  Thornburgh  thinks  the  day  is  too  uncertain; 
better  put  it  off." 

To  which  Elsmere  from  inside  replied  with  a  vigorous 
assent.  The  vicar  slowly  descended  to  tackle  his  spouse,  who 
seemed  to  have  established  herself  for  the  morning  in  his 
sanctum,  though  the  parish  accounts  were  clamoring  to  be 
done,  and  this  morning  in  the  week  belonged  to  them  by  im- 
memorial usage. 

But  Mrs.  Thornburgh  was  unmanageable.  She  sat  opposite 
to  him  with  one  hand  on  each  knee,  solemnly  demanding  of 
him  if  he  knew  what  was  to  be  done  with  young  women  nowa- 
days, because  she  didn't. 

The  tormented  vicar  declined  to  be  drawn  into  so  illimitable 
a  subject,  recommended  patience,  declared  that  it  might  be 
all  a  mistake,  and  tried  hard  to  absorb  himself  in  the  considera- 
tion of  2s.  8d.  plus  2s.  lid.  minus  9d. 

And  I  suppose,  WilHam,"  said  his  wife  to  him  at  last,  with 
withering  sarcasm,  ''that  you'd  sit  by  and  see  Catherine  break 
that  young  man's  heart,  and  send  him  back  to  his  mother  no 
better  than  he  came  here,  in  spite  of  all  the  beef-tea  and  jelly 
Sarah  and  I  have  been  putting  into  him,  and  never  lift  a  finger. 
You'd  see  his  life  blasted  and  you'd  do  nothing — ^nothing,  i 
suppose." 

And  she  fixed  him  with  a  fiercely  interrogative  eye. 

''Of  course,"  cried  the  vjcar,  roused;  "I  should  think  so. 


128 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


What  good  did  an  outsider  ever  get  by  meddling  in  a  love 
affair  ?  Take  care  of  yourself,  Emma.  If  the  girl  doesn't  care 
for  him,  you  can't  make  her." 

The  vicar's  wife  rose,  the  upturned  comers  of  her  mouth 
saying  unutterable  things. 

"  Doesn't  care  for  him  !"  she  echoed,  in  a  tone  which  im- 
plied that  her  husband's  head-piece  was  past  praying  for. 

' '  Yes,  doesn't  care  for  him  !"  said  the  vicar,  nettled.  ' '  What 
else  should  make  her  give  him  a  snub  like  this  ?" 

Mrs.  Thornburgh  looked  at  him  again  with  exasperation. 
Then  a  curious  expression  stole  into  her  eyes. 

Oh,  the  Lord  only  knows!"  she  said,  with  a  hasty  freedom 
of  speech  which  left  the  vicar  feeling  decidedly  uncomfortable 
as  she  shut  the  door  after  her. 

However,  if  the  Higher  Powers  alone  knew,  Mrs.  Thornburgh 
was  convinced  that  she  could  make  a  very  shrewd  guess  at  the 
causes  of  Catherine's  behavior.  In  her  opinion  it  was  all  pure 
^'  cussedness."  Catherine  Ley  burn  had  always  conducted  her 
life  on  principles  entirely  different  from  those  of  other  people. 
Mrs.  Thornburgh  wholly  denied,  as  she  sat  bridUng  by  herself, 
that  it  was  a  Christian  necessity  to  make  yourself  and  other 
people  uncomfortable.  Yet  this  was  what  this  perverse  young 
woman  was  always  doing.  Here  was  a  charming  young  man 
who  had  fallen  in  love  with  her  at  first  sight,  and  had  done  his 
best  to  make  the  fact  plain  to  her  in  the  most  chivalrous  de- 
voted ways.  Catherine  encourages  him,  walks  with  him,  talks 
with  him,  is  for  a  whole  three  weeks  more  gay  and  cheerful 
^and  more  like  other  girls  than  she  has  ever  been  known  to  be, 
and  then,  at  the  end  of  it,  just  w'hen  everybody  is  breathlessly 
awaiting  the  natural  denouement,  goes  off  to  spend  the  day  that 
should  have  been  the  day  of  her  betrothal  in  pottering  about 
orphan  asylums,  leaving  everybody,  but  especially  the  poor 
young  man,  to  look  ridiculous !  No,  Mrs.  Thornburgh  had  no 
patience  with  her— none  at  all.  It  was  all  because  she  would 
not  be  happy  like  anybody  else,  but  must  needs  set  herself  up 
to  be  peculiar.  Why  not  live  on  a  pillar,  and  go  into  hair-shirts 
at  once  ?  Then  the  rest  of  the  world  would  know  what  to  be  at. 

Meanwhile  Rose  was  in  no  small  excitement.  While  her 
mother  and  Elsmere  had  been  talking  in  the  garden  she  had 
been  discreetly  waiting  in  the  back  behind  the  angle  of  the 
house,  and  when  she  saw  Elsmere  walk  off  she  followed  him 
with  eager,  sympathetic  eyes. ' 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


129 


*'Poor  fellow!"  she  said  to  herself,  but  this  time  with  the 
little  tone  of  patronage  which  a  girl  of  eighteen,  conscious  of 
graces  and  good  looks,  never  shrinks  from  assuming  toward  an 
elder  male,  especially  a  male  in  love  with  some  one  else. 
wonder  whether  he  think  she  knows  anything  about  Catherine?" 

But  her  own  feeling  to-day  was  very  soft  and  complex. 
Yesterday  it  had  been  all  hot  rebellion.  To-day  it  was  all  re- 
morse and  wondering  curiosity.  What  had  brought  Catherine 
into  her  room,  with  that  white  face,  and  that  bewildering 
change  of  policy  ?  What  had  made  her  do  this  brusque,  dis- 
courteous thing  to-day  ?  Eose,  having  been  delayed  by  the  loss 
of  one  of  her  goloshes  in  a  bog,  had  bee^  once  near  her  and 
Elsmere  during  that  dripping  descent  from  Shanmoor.  They 
bad  been  so  clearly  absorbed  in  one  another  that  she  had  fled 
on  guiltily  to  Agnes,  golosh  in  hand,  without  waiting  to  put  it 
on;  confident,  however,  th^t  neither  Elsmere  nor  Catherine 
had  been  aware  of  her  little  adventure.  And  at  the  Shanmoor 
tea  Catherine  herself  had  discussed  the  picnic,  offering,  in  fact, 
to  guide  the  party  to  a  particular  ghyll  in  High  Fell,  better 
known  to  her  than  any  one  else. 

Oh,  of  course  it's  our  salvation  in  this  world  and  the  next 
that's  in  the  way,"  thought  Eose,  sitting  crouched  up  in  a 
grassy  nook  in  the  garden,  her  shoulders  up  to  her  ears,  her 
chin  in  her  hands.  wish  to  goodness  Catherine  wouldn't 
think  so  much  about  mine,  at  any  rate.  I  hate,"  added  this 
incorrigible  young  person — ^'I  hate  being  the  third  part  of  a 
*  moral  obstacle '  against  my  will.  I  declare  I  don't  believe  we 
should  any  of  us  go  to  perdition  even  if  Catherine  did  marry. 
And  what  a  wretch  I  am  to  think  so  after  last  ni^ht !  Oh, 
dear,  I  wish  she'd  let  me  do  something  for  her;  I  wish  she'd 
ask  me  to  black  her  boots  for  her,  or  put  in  her  tuckers,  or  tidy 
her  drawers  for  her,  or  anything  worse  still,  and  I'll  do  it  and 
welcome!" 

It  was  getting  uncomfortably  serious  all  round,  Eose  ad- 
mitted. But  there  was  one  element  of  comedy  besides  Mrs. 
Thornburgh,  and  that  was  Mrs.  Leyburn's  unconsciousness. 

''Mamma  is  too  good,"  thought  the  girl,  with  a  little  ripple 
of  laughter.  "She  takes  it  as  a  matter  of  course  that  all  the 
world  should  admire  us,  and  she'd  scorn  to  believe  that  any- 
body did  it  from  interested  motives. " 

,  Which  was  perfectly  true.  Mrs.  Leyburn  was  too  devoted 
to  her  daughters  to  feel  any  fidgety  interest  in  their  marrying. 


130 


ROBEET  ELSMERE. 


Of  course  the  most  eligible  persons  would  be  only  too  thankful 
to  marry  them  when  the  moment  came.  Meanwhile  her  devo- 
tion was  in  no  need  of  the  confirming  testimony  of  lovers.  It 
was  sufficient  in  itself,  and  kept  her  mind  gently  occupied  from 
morning  till  night.  If  it  had  occiu-red  to  her  to  notice  that 
Robert  Elsmere  had  been  paying  special  attentions  to  any  one 
in  the  family,  she  would  have  suggested  ^vith  perfect  naivete 
that  it  was  herself.  For  he  had  been  to  her  the  very  pink  of 
courtesy  and  consideration,  and  she  was  of  opinion  that  *'poor 
Richard's  views  "  of  the  degeneracy  of  Oxford  men  would  have 
been  modified  could  he  have  seen  this  particular  specimen. 

Later  on  in  the  morning  Rose  had  been  out  giving  Bob  a 
run,  while  Agnes  drove  with  her  mother.  On  the  way  home 
she  overtook  Elsmere  returning  from  an  errand  for  the  vicar. 

It  is  not  so  bad,"  she  said  to  him,  laughing,  pointing  to  th^ 
sky;  "we  really  might  have  gone.'' 

"  Oh,  it  would  have  been  cheerless,"  he  said,  simply.  His  look 
of  depression  amazed  her.  She  felt  a  quick  movement  of  sym- 
pathy, a  wild  wish  to  bid  him  cheer  up  and  fight  it  out.  If  she 
could  just  have  shown  him  Catherine  as  she  looked  last  night? 
Why  couldn't  she  talk  it  out  with  him?  Absurd  conventions! 
She  had  half  a  mind  to  try. 

But  the  grave  look  of  the  man  beside  her  deterred  even  her 
young  half -childish  audacity. 

"  Catherine  will  have  a  good  day  for  all  her  business,"  she 
said,  carelessly. 

He  assented  quietly.  Oh,  after  that  hand-shake  on  the  bridge 
yesterday  she  could  not  stand  it— she  must  give  him  a  hint  how 
the  land  lay. 

''I  suppose  she  will  spend  the  afternoon  with  Aunt  Ellen.  Mr.  . 
Elsmere,  what  did  you  think  of  Aunt  Ellen?" 

Elsmere  started,  and  could  not  help  smiling  into  the  youn^ 
girl's  beautiful  eyes,  which  were  radiant  with  fun. 

''A  most  estimable  person,"  he  said.    *'Are  you  on  good 
terms  with  her,  Miss  Rose?" 

Oh,  dear,  no  she  said,  with  a  httle  face.  I'm  not  a  Ley- 
bum;  I  wear  aesthetic  dresses,  and  Aunt  EUen  has  'special 
leadings  of  the  spirit '  to  the  effect  that  the  violin  is  a  soul-de- 
stroying instrument.  Oh,  dear !"— and  the  girl's  mouth  twisted 
—"it's  alarming  to  think,  if  Catherine  hadn't  been  Catherine, 
how  like  Aunt  Ellen  she  might  have  been  I" 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


135 


She  flashed  a  mischievous  look  at  him,  and  thrilled  as  she 
caught  the  sudden  change  of  expression  in  his  face. 

Your  sister  has  the  Westmoreland  strength  in  her— one  can 
see  that,"  he  said,  evidently  speaking  with  some  difficulty. 

Strength!  Oh,  yes.  Catherine  has  plenty  of  strength," 
cried  Eose,  and  then  was  silent  a  moment.  You  know,  Mr. 
Elsmere,"  she  went  on  at  last,  obeying  some  inward  impulse — 

or  perhaps  you  don't  know— that,  at  home,  we  are  all  Cath- 
erine's creatures.  She  does  exactly  what  she  likes  with  us. 
¥7hen  my  father  died  she  was  sixteen,  Agnes  was  ten,  I  was 
■  eight.  We  came  here  to  live— we  were  not  very  rich,  of  course, 
and  mamma  wasn't  strong.  Well,  she  did  everything;  she 
taught  us— we  have  scarcely  had  any  teacher  but  her  since 
then;  she  did  most  of  the  housekeeping;  and  you  can  see  for 
yourself  what  she  does  for  the  neighbors  and  poor  folk.  She 
is  never  ill,  she  is  never  idle,  she  always  knows  her  own  mind. 
We  owe  everything  we  are,  almost  everything  we  have,  to  her. 
Her  nursing  has  kept  mamma  alive  through  one  or  two  illnesses. 
Our  lawyer  says  he  never  knew  any  business  affairs  better  man- 
aged than  ours,  and  Catherine  manages  them.  The  one  thing 
she  never  takes  any  care  or  thought  for  is  herself.  What  we 
should  do  without  her  I  can't  imagine;  and  yet  sometimes  I 
think  if  it  goes  on  much  longer  none  of  us  three  will  have  any 
character  of  our  own  left.  After  all,  you  know,  it  maybe  good 
for  the  weak  people  to  struggle  on  their  own  feet,  if  the  strong 
would  only  believe  it,  instead  of  always  being  carried.  The 
strong  people  needn't  be  always  trampling  on  themselves— if 
they  only  knew — " 

She  stopped  abruptly,  flushing  scarlet  over  her  own  daring. 
Her  eyes  were  feverishly  bright,  and  her  voice  vibrated  under 
a  strange  mixture  of  feelings— sympathy,  reverence,  and  a  pas- 
sionate inner  admiration  struggling  with  rebellion  and  protest. 

They  had  reached  the  gate  of  the  vicarage.  Elsmere  stopped 
and  looked  at  his  companion  with  a  singular  Hghtening  of  ex- 
pression. He  saw  perfectly  that  the  young  impetuous  creature 
understood  him,  that  she  felt  his  cause  was  not  prospering,  and 
that  she  wanted  to  help  him.  He  saw  that  what  she  meant  by 
this  picture  of  their  common  life  was  that  no  one  need  expect 
Catherine  Leyburn  to  be  an  easy  prey ;  that  she  wanted  to  im- 
press on  him  in  her  eager  way  that  such  Hves  as  her  sister's  were 
not  to  be  gathered  at  a  touch,  without  difficulty,  from  the  branch 
thP-t  b^ar^  them.   She  wa^  exhorting^  him  to  courage— nay,  he 


132 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


caught  njore  than  e:^hortation— a  sort  of  secret  message  from 
her  bright  excited  looks  and  incoherent  speech  that  made  his 
heart  leap.  But  pride  and  deUcacy  forbade  him  to  put  his  feel- 
ing into  words. 

You  don't  hope  to  persuade  me  that  your  sister  reckons  you 
among  the  weak  persons  of  the  world?"  he  said,  laughing,  his 
hand  on  the  gate.  Rose  could  have  blessed  him  for  thus  turn- 
ing the  conversation.   What  on  earth  could  she  have  said  next? 

She  stood  bantering  a  little  longer,  and  then  ran  off  with  Bob. 

Elsmere  passed  the  rest  of  the  morning  wandering  medita- 
tively over  the  cloudy  fells.  After  all  he  was  only  where  he 
was,  before  the  blessed  madness,  the  upflooding  hope,  nay,  al- 
most certainty,  of  yesterday.  His  attack  had  been  for  the  mo- 
ment repulsed.  He  gathered  from  Rose's  manner  that  Cather- 
ine's action  with  regard  to  the  picnic  had  not  been  unmeaning 
nor  accidental,  as  on  second  thoughts  he  had  been  half  trying 
to  persuade  himself.  Evidently  those  about  her  felt  it  to  be 
ominous.  Well,  then,  at  worst,  when  they  met  they  would 
meet  on  a  different  footing,  with  a  sense  of  something  critical 
between  them.  Oh,  if  he  did  but  know  a  little  more  clearly  how 
he  stood !  He  spent  a  noonday  hour  on  a  gray  rock  on  the  side 
of  the  fell  between  Whindale  and  Marrisdale,  studying  the  path 
opposite,  the  stepping-stones,  the  bit  of  white  road.  The  min- 
utes passed  in  a  kind  of  trance  of  memory.  Oh,  that  soft  child- 
like movement  to  him,  after  his  speech  about  her  father !  that 
heavenly  yielding  and  self-forgetfulness  which  shone  in  her  ev- 
ery look  and  m.ovement  as  she  stood  balancing  on  the  stepping- 
stones  !  If  after  all  she  should  prove  cruel  to  him,  would  he 
not  have  a  legitimate  grievance,  a  heavy  charge  to  fling  against 
her  maiden  gentleness?  He  trampled  on  the  notion.  Let  her 
do  with  him  as  she  would,  she  would  be  his  saint  always,  un- 
questioned, unarraigned. 

But  with  such  a  memory  in  his  mind  it  was  impossible  that 
any  man,  least  of  all  a  man  of  Elsniere's  temperament,  could 
be  very* hopeless.  Oh,  yes,  he  had  been  rash,  foolhardy.  Do 
such  divine  creatures  stoop  to  mortal  men  as  easily  as  he  had 
dreamed?  He  recognizes  all  the  difficulties,  he  enters  into  the 
force  of  all  the  ties  that  bind  her— or  imagines  that  he  does. 
But  he  is  a  man  and  her  lover;  and  if  she  loves  him,  in  the 
end  love  will  conquer — must  conquer.  For  his  more  modem 
sense,  deeply  Christianized  as  it  is,  assumes  almost  without 
argument  the  sacredness  of  passion  and  its  claim— wherein  a 


ROBEBT  ELSMERE. 


133 


vast  difference  between  himseif  and  that  solitary  wrestler  in 
Marrisdale. 

Meanwhile  he  kept  all  his  hopes  and  fears  to  himself.  Mrs. 
Thornburgh  was  dying  to  talk  to  him;  but  though  his  mobile, 
boyish  temperament  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  disguise  hia 
change  of  mood,  there  was  in  him  a  certain  natural  dignity 
which  hfe  greatly  developed,  but  which  made  it  always  possi- 
ble for  him  to  hold  his  own  against  curiosity  and  indiscretion. 
Mrs.  Thornburgh  had  to  hold  her  peace.  As  for  the  vicar,  he 
developed  what  were  for  him  a  surprising  number  of  new  top- 
ics of  conversation,  and  in  the  late  afternoon  took  Elsmere  a 
run  up  the  fells  to  the  nearest  fragment  of  the  Eoman  road 
which  runs,  with  such  magnificent  disregard  of  the  humors  of 
Mother  Earth,  over  the  very  top  of  High  Street  toward  Penrith 
and  Carlisle. 

Next  day  it  looked  as  though  after  many  waverings,  the  char- 
acteristic Westmoreland  weather  had  descended  upon  them  in 
good  earnest.  From  early  morn  till  late  evening  the  valley 
was  wrapped  in  damp  clouds  or  moving  rain,  which  swept 
down  from  the  west  through  the  great  basin  of  the  hills,  and 
rolled  along  the  course  of  the  river,  wrapping  trees  and  fells 
and  houses  in  the  same  misty  cheerless  drizzle.  Under  the  out- 
ward pall  of  rain,  indeed,  the  valley  was  renewing  its  summer 
youth ;  the  river  was  swelling  with  an  impetuous  music  through 
all  its  dwindled  channels;  the  crags  flung  out  white  waterfalls 
again,  which  the  heat  had  almost  dried  away;  and  by  noon  the 
\vhole  green  hollow  was  vocal  with  the  sounds  of  water — water 
flashing  and  foaming  in  the  river,  water  leaping  downward 
from  the  rocks,  water  dripping  steadfly  from  the  larches  and 
sycamores  and  the  slate  eves  of  the  houses. 

Elsmere  sat  in-doors  reading  up  the  history  of  the  parish  sys- 
tem of  Surrey,  or  pretending  to  do  so.  He  sat  in  a  corner  of 
the  study,  where  he  and  the  vicar  protected  each  other  against 
Mrs. 'Thornburgh.,  That  good  woman  would  open  the  door  once 
and  again  in  the  morning,  and  put  her  head  through  in  search 
of  prey;  but  on  being  confronted  with  two  studious  men  in- 
stead of  one,  each  buried  up  to  the  ears  in  folios,  she  would 
give  vent  to  an  irritable  cough  and  retire  discomfited.  In  real- 
ity Elsmere  was  thinking  of  nothing  in  the  world  hut  what 
Catherine  Leyburn  might  be  doing  that  morning.  Judging  a 
north  countrywoman  by  the  pusillanimous  southern  standard, 


134 


ROBEHT  ELSMBBB. 


he  found  himself  glorying  in  the  weather.  She  could  not  wan- 
der far  fi'om  him  to  day. 

After  the  early  dinner  he  escaped,  just  as  the  vicar's  wife 
was  devising  an  excuse  on  which  to  convey  both  him  and  her- 
seK  to  Burwood,  and  salhed  forth  with  a  mackintosh  for  a  rush 
down  the  Whinborough  road.  It  was  still  raining,  but  the 
clouds  showed  a  momentary  hghtening,  and  a  few  gleams  of 
watery  sunshine  brought  out  every  now  and  then  that  sparkle 
on  the  trees,  that  iridescent  beauty  of  distance  and  atmosphei-e 
which  goes  so  far  to  make  a  sensitive  spectator  forget  the  petu- 
lant abundance  of  moimtain  rain.  Elsmere  passed  Burwood 
with  a  thrill.  Should  he  or  should  he  not  present  himself? 
Let  him  push  on  a  bit  and  think.  So  on  he  swung,  measming 
his  tall  frame  against  the  gusts,  spirits  and  mascuHne  energy- 
rising  higher  with  every  step.  At  last  the  passion  of  his  mood 
had  wrestled  itself  out  with  the  weather,  and  he  turned  back, 
once  more  determined  to  seek  and  find  her,  to  face  his  fortunes 
like  a  man.  The  warm  i-ain  beating  fi-om  the  west  struck  on 
his  uplifted  face.  He  welcomed  it  as  a  friend.  Eain  and 
storm  had  opened  to  him  the  gates  of  a  spiritual  citadel.  What 
could  ever  wholly  close  it  against  him  any  more?  He  felt  so 
strong,  so  confident !   Patience  and  com^^ge ! 

Before  him  the  great  hollow  of  High  Fell  was  just  coming 
out  from  the  white  mists  surging  round  it.  A  shait  of  sun- 
light lay  across  its  upper  end,  and  he  caught  a  marvelous  ap- 
parition of  a  sunlighted  valley  hung  in  air,  a  pale  strip  of  blue 
above  it,  a  white  thread  of  stream  wavering  through  it,  and  all 
around  it  and  below  it  the  rolUng  rain-clouds. 

Suddenly  between  him  and  that  enchanter's  vision  he  saw  a 
dark  slim  figure  against  the  mists,  walking  before  him  along 
the  road.  It  was  Catherine— Catherine  just  emerged  from  a 
foot-path  across  the  fields,  batthng  with  wind  and  rain,  and 
quite  unconscious  of  any  spectator.  Oh,  what  a  sudden  thiil 
was  that !  what  a  leaping  together  of  joy  and  dread,  which  sent 
the  blood  to  his  heart!  Alone— they  two  alone  again— in  the 
wild  Westmoreland  mists,  and  haK  a  mile  at  least  of  winding 
road  between  them  and  Burwood.  He  flew  after  her,  dreading, 
and  yet  longing  for  the  moment  when  he  should  meet  her  eyes. 
Fortune  had  suddenly  given  this  hour  into  his  hands;  he  felt  it 
open  upon  him  hke  that  mystic  valley  in  the  clouds. 

Catherine  heard  the  hurrying  steps  behind  her  and  turned. 
There  was  an  evident  start  when  she  caught  sight  of  her  pur- 


ROBEBT  ELSMERE. 


135 


suer — a  quick  change  of  expression.  She  wore  a  close  fitting 
water-proof  dress  and  cap.  Her  hair  was  hghtly  loosened,  her 
cheek  freshened  by  the  storm.  He  came  up  with  her;  he  took 
her  hand,  his  eyes  dancing  with  the  joy  he  could  not  hide. 

What  are  you  made  of,  I  wonder !"  he  said,  gayly.  Noth- 
ing, certainly,  that  minds  weather."  ^ 

'*No  Westmoreland  native  thinks  of  staying  at  home  for 
this,"  she  said,  with  her  quiet  smile,  moving  on  beside  him  as 
she  spoke. 

He  looked  down  upon  her  with  an  indescribable  mixture  of 
feelings.  No  stiffness,  no  coldness  in  her  manner— only  the 
even  gentleness  which  always  marked  her  out  from  others.  He 
felt  as  though  yesterday  were  blotted  out,  and  would  not  for 
worlds  have  recalled  it  to  her  or  reproached  her  with  it.  Let 
it  be  as  though  they  were  but  carrying  on  the  scene  of  the  step- 
ping-stones. 

^' Look, "he  said,  pointing  to  the  wxst;  '^have  you  been 
watching  that  magical  break  in  the  clouds?" 

Her  eyes  followed  his  to  the  delicate  picture  hung  high 
among  the  moving  mists. 

Ah,"  she  exclaimed,  her  face  kindling,  that  is  one  of  our 
loveliest  effects,  and  one  of  the  rarest.  You  are  lucky  to  have 
seen  it." 

I  am  conceited  enough,"  he  said,  joyously,  ''to  feel  as  if 
some  enchanter  were  at  work  up  there  drawing  pictures  on  the 
mists  for  my  special  benefit.  How  welcome  the  rain  is !  As  I 
am  afraid  you  have  heard  me  say  before,  what  new  charm  it 
gives  to  your  valley  I^^' 

There  was  something  in  the  buoyancy  and  force  of  his  mood 
that  seemed  to  make  Catherine  shrink  into  herself.  She  would 
not  pursue  the  subject  of  Westmoreland.  She  asked,  with  a 
little  stiffness,  whether  he  had  good  news  from  Mrs.  Elsmere. 

*'0h,  yes.  As  usual,  she  is  doing  everything  for  me,"  he 
said,  smiHng.  It  is  disgraceful  that  I  should  be  idling  here 
while  she  is  struggling  with  carpenters  and  paperers,  and  puz- 
zling out  the  decorations  of  the  drawing-room.  She  writes  to- 
me in  a  fury  about  the  word  '  artistic'  She  declares  even  the 
little  upholsterer  at  Churton  hurls  it  at  her  every  other  minute, 
and  that  if  it  weren't  for  me  she  would  select  everything  as 
frankly,  primevally  hideous  as  she  could  find,  just  to  spite  him. 
As  it  is,  he  has  so  warped  her  judgment  that  she  has  left  the 
aitting-room  papers  till  I  arrive.   For  the  drawing-room  sh^ 


m 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


j^vows  a  passionate  preference  for  one  all  cabbage-roses  and  no 
stalks;  but  she  admits  that  it  may  be  exasperation.  She  wants 
your  sister,  clearly,  to  advise  her.  By  the  way,"  and  his  voice 
changed,  the  vicar  told  me  last  night  that  Miss  Rose  is  going 
to  Manchester  for  the  winter  to  study.  He  heard  it  from  Miss 
Agnes,  I  think.  The  news  interested  me  greatly  after  our  con- 
versation." 

He  looked  at  her  with  the  most  winning  interrogative  eyes. 
His  whole  manner  implied  that  everything  which  touched  and 
concerned  her  touched  and  concerned  him ;  and,  moreover,  that 
she  had  given  him  in  some  sort  a  right  to  share  her  thoughts 
and  difficulties.  Catherine  struggled  with  herself. 
I  trust  it  may  answer,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

But  she  would  say  no  more,  and  he  felt  rebuffed.  His  buoy- 
dncy^began  to  desert  him. 

''It  must  be  a  great  trial  to  Mrs.  Elsmere,"  she  said  presently 
with  an  effort,  once  more  steering  away  from  herself  and  her 
concerns,    this  going  back  to  her  old  home." 

"  It  is.  My  father's  long  struggle  for  life  in  that  house  is  a 
very  painful  memory.  I  wished  her  4;o  put  it  off  till  I  could  go 
with  her,  but  she  declared  she  would  rather  get  over  the  first 
week  or  two  by  herself.  How  I  should  like  you  to  know  my 
mother.  Miss  Ley  burn !" 

At  this  she  could  not  help  meeting  his  glance  and  smile,  and 
answering  them,  though  with  a  kind  of  constraint  most  unlike 
her. 

"  I  hope  I  may  some  day  see  Mrs.  Elsmere,"  she  said. 

"It  is  one  of  my  strongest  wishes,"  he  answered,  hurriedly, 
''  to  bring  you  together." 

The  words  were  simple  enough;  the  tone  was  full  of  emotion. 
He  was  fast  losing  control  of  himself.  She  felt  it  through 
every  nerve,  and  a  sort  of  wild  dread  seized  her  of  what  he 
might  say  next.    Oh,  she  must,  she  must  prevent  it ! 

"  Your  mother  was  with  you  most  of  your  Oxford  life,  was 
she  not?"  she  said,  forcing  herself  to  speak  in  her  most  every- 
day tones. 

He  controlled  himself  with  a  mighty  effort. 

"Since  I  became  a  Fellow.  We  have  been  alone  in  the 
world  so  long.  We  have  never  been  able  to  do  without  each 
other." 

"Isn't  it  wonderful  to  you?"  said  Catherine,  after  a  little 
elecjijic  pause— aijd  her  voice  was  steadier  and  clearer  than  it 


EOBEBT  ELSMEEE. 


13* 


had  been  since  the  beginning  of  their  conversation — "how  lit- 
tle the  majority  of  sons  and  daughters  regard  their  parents 
when  they  come  to  grow  up  and  want  to  live  their  own  hves? 
The  one  thought  seems  to  be  to  get  rid  of  them,  to  throw  off 
their  claims,  to  cut  them  adrift,  to  escape  them— decently,  of 
course,  and  under  many  pretexts,  but  still  to  escape  them 
All  the  long  years  of  devotion  and  self-sacrifice  go  for  noth- 
ing." 

He  looked  at  her  quickly— a  troubled,  questioning  look. 
It  is  so,  often;  but  not,  I  think,  where  the  parents  have 
truly  understood  their  problem.  The  real  difficulty  for  father 
and  mother  is  not  childhood,  but  youth ;  how  to  get  over  that 
difficult  time  when  the  child  passes  into  the  man  or  woman, 
and  a  relation  of  governor  and  governed  should  become  the 
purest  and  closest  of  friendships.  You  and  I  have  been 
lucky." 

Yes,"  she  said,  looking  straight  before  her,  and  still  speak- 
ing with  a  distinctness  which  caught  his  ear  painfully,  '^and  so 
are  the  greater  debtors  I  There  is  no  excuse,  I  think,  for  any 
chM^4east^<tf  all  for  the  child  who  has  had  years  of  understand- 
ing love  to  look  back  upon,  if  it  puts  its  own  claim  first;  if  i\ 
insists  on  satisfying  itself,  when  there  is  age  and  weakness  ap- 
peahng  to  it  on  the  other  side,  when  it  is  still  urgently  needed 
to  help  those  older,  to  shield  those  younger,  than  itself.  Its 
business  first  of  all  is  to  pay  its  debt,  whatever  the  cost," 

The  voice  was  low,  but  it  had  the  clear  vibrating  ring  o! 
steel.   Eobert's  face  had  darkened  visibly. 

''But,  surely,"  he  cried,  goaded  by  a  new  stinging  sense  of 
revolt  and  pain — surely  the  child  may  make  a  fatal  mistake 
if  it  imagines  that  its  own  happiness  counts  for  nothing  in  the 
parents'  eyes.  What  parent  but  must  suffer  from  the  starving 
of  the  child's  nature?  What  have  mother  and  father  been 
working  for,  after  all,  but  the  perfecting  of  the  child's  life! 
Their  longing  is  that  it  should  fulfil  itself  in  all  direstions. 
New  ties,  new  affections,  on  the  child's  part,  mean  the  enrich- 
ing of  the  parent.  What  a  cruel  fate  for  the  elder  generation, 
to  make  it  the  jailer  and  burden  of  the  younger  I" 

He  spoke  with  heat  and  anger,  with  a  sense  of  dashing  him- 
self against  an  obstacle,  and  a  dumb  despairing  certainty  rising 
at  the  heart  of  him. 

Ah,  that  is  what  we  are  so  ready  to  say,"  she  answered, 
her  breath  coming  more  auickly,  and  her  eye  meeting  his  with 


138 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


a  kind  of  antagonism  in  it ;  but  it  is  all  sophistry.  The  only 
safety  lies  in  following  out  the  plain  duty.  The  parent  wants 
the  child's  help  and  care,  the  child  is  bound  to  give  it;  that  is 
all  it  needs  to  knovY.  If  it  forms  new  ties,  it  belongs  to  them, 
not  to  the  old  ones;  the  old  ones  must  come  to  be  forgotten  and 
put  aside." 

''So  you  would  make  all  life  a  sacrifice  to  the  past!"  he 
cried,  quivering  under  the  blow  she  was  dealing  him. 

''  No,  not  all  life,"  she  said,  strugghng  hard  to  preserve  her 
perfect  calm  of  manner:  he  could  not  know  that  she  was  trem- 
bhng  from  head  to  foot.  ' '  There  are  many  for  whom  it  is  easy 
and  right  to  choose  their  own  way ;  their  happiness  robs  no 
one.  There  are  others  on  whom  a  charge  has  been  laid  from 
their  childhood,  a  charge  perhaps  "—and  her  voice  faltered  at 
last— ''impressed  on  them  by  dying  lips,  which  must  govern, 
possess  their  lives;  which  it  would  be  baseness,  treason,  to  be- 
tray.  We  are  not  here  only  to  be  happy." 

And  she  turned  to  him  deadly  pale,  the  faintest,  sweetest 
smile  on  her  Hp.  He  was  for  the  moment  incapable  of  speech. 
He  began  phrase  after  phrase,  and  broke  them  off.  -  A  whirl- 
wind of  feeling  possessed  him.  The  strangeness,  the  unworld- 
liness  of  what  she  had  done  struck  him  singularly.  He  realized 
through  every  nerve  that  what  she  had  just  said  to  him  she 
had  been  bracing  herself  to  say  to  him  ever  since  their  last 
parting.  And  now  he  could  not  tell,  or  rather,  blindly  could 
not  see,  whether  she  suffered  in  the  saying  it.  A  passionate 
protest  rose  in  him,  not  so  much  against  her  words  as  against 
her  self-control.  The  man  in  him  rose  up  against  the  woman's 
unlooked-for,  unwelcome  strength. 

But  as  the  hot  words  she  had  dared  so  much  in  her  simplic- 
ity to  avert  from  them  both  were  bursting  from  him,  they  were 
checked  by  a  sudden  physical  difficulty,  A  bit  of  road  was 
under  water.  A  little  beck,  swollen  by  the  rain,  had  over- 
flowed, and  for  a  few  yards'  distance  the  water  stood  about 
eight  inches  deep  from  hedge  to  hedge.  Eobert  had  splashed 
through  the  flood  half  an  hour  before,  but  it  had  risen  rapidly 
since  then.  He  had  to  apply  his  mind  to  the  practical  task  of 
finding  a  way  to  the  other  side. 

"You  must  climb  the  bank,"  he  said,  **and  get  through 
into  the  field." 

She  assented  mutely.  He  went  first,  di-ew  her  up  the  bank, 
forced  his  way  througn  the  loosely  growing  hedge  himself,  and 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


139 


holding  back  some  young  hazel  saplings  and  breaking  others, 
made  an  opening  for  her  through  which  she  scrambled  with 
bent  head;  then,  stretching  out  his  hand  to  her,  he  made  her 
submit  to  be  helped  down  the  steep  bank  on  the  other  side. 
Her  straight  young  figure  was  just  above  him,  her  breath 
almost  on  his  cheek. 

You  talk  of  baseness  and  treason,"  he  began,  passionately, 
conscious  of  a  hundred  wUd  impulses,  as  perforce  she  leaned 
her  light  weight  upon  his  arm.  ''Life  is  not  so  simple.  It  is 
so  easy  to  sacrifice  others  with  one's  self,  to  slay  all  claims  m 
honor  of  one,  instead  of  knitting  the  new  ones  to  the  old.  Is 
Hfe  to  be  allowed  no  natural  expansion  ?  Have  you  forgotten 
that,  in  refusing  the  new  bond  for  the  old  bond's  sake,  the 
chM  may  be  simply  wronging  the  parents,  depriving  them  of 
another  affection,  another  support,  which  ought  to  have  been 
theirs?" 

His  tone  was  harsh,  almost  violent.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
she  grew  suddenly  white,  and  he  grasped  her  more  firmly  stiU. 
She  reached  the  level  of  the  field,  quickly  withdrew  her  hand, 
and  for  a  moment  their  eyes  met,  her  pale  face  raised  to  his. 
It  seemed  an  age,  so  much  was  said  in  that  look.  There  was 
appeal  on  her'  side,  passion  on  his.  Plainly  she  implored  him 
ji  to  say  no  more,  to  spare  her  and  himself. 

"In  some  cases,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  sounded  strained 
and  hoarse  to  both  of  them,  ''one  can  not  risk  the  old  bond. 
One  dare  not  trust  one's  self— or  circum.stance.  The  responsi^ 
bility  is  too  great:  one  can  but  follow  the  beaten  path,  cling  to 
the  one  thread.  But  don't  let  us  talk  of  it  any  more.  We 
must  make  for  that  gate,  Mr.  Elsmere.  It  will  bring  us  out  oi^. 
the  road  again  close  by  home." 

He  was  quelled.  Speech  suddenly  became  impossible  to  him 
He  was  struck  again  with  that  sense  of  a  will  firmer  and  mow 
tenacious  than  his  own,  which  had  visited  him  in  a  slight  pass 
ing  way  on  the  first  evening  they  ever  met,  and  now  filled  hiri 
with  a  kind  of  despair.  As  they  pushed  silently  along  the  edg 
of  the  dripping  meadow,  he  noticed  with  a  pang  that  the  step 
ping-stones  lay  just  below  them.  The  gleam  of  sun  had  die 
away,  the  aerial  valley  in  the  clouds  had  vanished,  and  a  fresl 
storm  01  rain  brought  back  the  color  to  Catherine's  cheek.  O; 
their  left  hand  was  the  roaring  of  the  river,  on  their  right  the; 
could  already  hear  the  wind  moaning  and  tearing  through  th 
>^treams  which  shelter^  Burwood.   The  nature  which  an  hou 


140 


ROBERT  ELSMERE» 


ago  had  seemed  to  him  so  full  of  stimulus  and  exhilaration  had 
taken  to  itself  a  note  of  gloom  and  mourning ;  for  he  was  at 
the  age  when  Nature  is  the  mere  docile  responsive  mirror  of 
the  spirit,  when  all  her  forces  and  powers  are  made  for  us,  and 
are  only  there  to  play  chorus  to  our  story. 

They  reached  the  little  lane  leading  to  the  gate  of  Burwood. 
She  paused  at  the  foot  of  it. 

You  will  come  in  and  see  my  mother,  Mr.  Elsmere?" 

Her  look  expressed  a  yearning  she  could  not  crush.  Your 
pardon,  your  friendship,"  it  cried,  with  the  usual  futility  of  all 
good  women  under  the  circumstances.  But  as  he  met  it  for 
one  passionate  instant,  he  recognized  fully  that  there  was  not 
a  trace  of  yielding  in  it.  At  the  bottom  of  the  softness  there 
was  the  iron  of  resolution. 

*'No,  no;  not  now,"  he  said,  involuntarily;  and  she  never 
forgot  the  painful  struggle  of  the  face;  "goodbye."  He 
touched  her  hand  without  another  word,  and  wjis  gone. 

She  toiled  up  to  the  gate  with  difficulty,  the  gray,  rain- washed 
road,  the  wall,  the  trees,  swimming  before  her  eyes. 

In  the  hall  she  came  across  Agnes,  who  caught  hold  of  her 
with  a  start. 

My  dear  Cathie !  you  have  been  walking  yourself  to  death. 
You  look  like  a  ghost.   Come  and  have  some  tea  at  once." 

And  she  dragged  her  into  the  drawing-room.  Catherine 
submitted  with  all  her  usual  outward  calm,  faintly  smihng  at 
her  sister's  onslaught.  But  she  would  not  let  Agnes  put  her 
down  on  the  sofa.  She  stood  with  her  hand  on  the  back  of  a 
chair. 

"  The  weather  is  very  close  and  exhausting,"  she  said,  gently 
lifting  her  hand  to  her  hat.  But  the  hand  dropped,  and  she 
sunk  hea\dly  into  the  chair. 

"  Cathie,  you  are  famt,"  cried  Agnes,  running  to  her. 

Catherine  waved  her  away,  and,  with  an  effort  of  which 
none  but  she  would  have  been  capable,  mastered  the  physical 
weakness. 

"I  have  been  a  long  way,  dear,"  she  said,  as  though  in 
apology,  "  and  there  is  no  air.  Yes,  I  wOl  go  upstairs  and  lie 
down  a  minute  or  two.  Oh,  no,  don't  come;  I  will  be  down 
f!>T  t^a  directly." 

Ancl  refusing  all  help,  she  guided  herself  out  of  the  room, 
fcsr  face  the  color  of  the  foam  on  the  beck  outside.  Agass 


ROBEBT  ELSMEEB. 


141 


Blood  dumbfounded.  Never  in  her  life  before  had  she  seen 
Catherine  betray  any  such  signs  of  physical  exhaustion. 

Suddenly  Eose  ran  in,  shut  the  door  carefully  behmd  her, 
and  rushing  up  to  Agnes  put  her  hands  on  her  shoulders. 

"  He  has  proposed  to  her,  and  she  has  said  no!" 

"He?  What,  Mr.  Elsmere?  How  on  earth  can  you  know?'- 

"I  saw  them 'from  upstairs  come  to  the  bottom  of  the  lane. 
Then  he  rushed  on,  and  I  have  just  met  her  on  the  stairs.  It'a 
as  plain  as  the  nose  on  your  face." 

Agnes  set  down  bewildered. 

"  It  is  hard  on  him,"  she  said  at  last. 

"  Yes,  it  is  very  hard  on  him !"  cried  Rose,  pacing  the  room, 
her  long  thin  arms  clasped  behind  her,  her  eyes  flashing,  "for 
she  loves  him  1" 

"Eose!" 

"  She  does,  my  dear,  she  does,"  cried  the  girl,  frowning.  "1 
know  it  in  a  hundred  ways." 
Agnes  ruminated.  ^   ^.  , 

"  And  it's  all  because  of  us?"  she  said  at  last,  reflectively. 
"Of  course!  I  put  it  to  you,  Agnes"- and  Eose  stood  still 
with  a  tragic  air-"  I  put  it  to  you,  whether  it  isn't  too  bad 
that  three  unoffending  women  should  have  such  a  role  as  this 
assigned  them  against  their  will !"  _ 

The  eloquence  of  eighteen  was  irresistible.  Agnes  buried 
her  head  in  the  sofa  cushion,  and  shook  with  a  kind  of  help- 
less laughter.  Eose  meanwhile  stood  in  the  window,  her  thm 
form  drawn  up  to  its  full  height,  angry  with  Agnes,  and  en- 
raged with  all  the  world.  _  UT  1,  1^ 
"It's  absurd,  it's  insulting,"  she  exclaimed.  I  should 
imagine  that  you  and  I,  Agnes,  were  old  enough  and  sane 
enough  to  look  after  mamma,  put  out  the  stores,  or  say  oiir 
prayers,  and  prevent  each  other  from  running  away  with  ad- 
venturers! I  won't  be  always  in  leading-strings.  I  wont 
acknowledge  that  Catherine  is  bound  to  be  an  old  maid  to  keep 
me  in  order.   I  hate  it!  It  is  sacrifice  run  mad." 

And  Eose  turned  to  her  sister,  the  defiant  head  thrown  back, 
a  passion  of  manifold  protest  in  the  giriish  looks. 

"It  is  very  easy,  my  dear,  to  be  judge  in  one's  own  case, 
replied  Agnes,  calmly,  recovering  herself.    "  Suppose  you  tell 
Catherine  some  of  these  home  truths?" 

Eose  collapsed  at  once.   She  sat  down  despondently,  and 
fell,  head  drooping,  into  a  moodv  silence.   Agnes  watched  her 


KOBERT  ELSMERE. 


with  a  kind  of  triumph.  When  it  came  to  the  point,  she  knev. 
perfectly  weU  that  there  was  not  a  will  among  them  that  could 
measure  itself  with  any  chance  of  success  against  that  lofty 
but  unwavering  will  of  Catherine's.  Rose  was  violent,  and 
there  was  much  reason  in  her  violence.  But  as  for  her  she 
preferred  not  to  dash  her  head  against  stone  walls 

Well,  then,  if  you  won't  say  them  to  Catherine,  say  them 
to  mamma,"  she  suggested  presently,  but  half  ironicaUy 

Mamma  is  no  good,"  cried  Rose,  angrily;  "why  do  vou 
bnng  herm?  Catherine  would  talk  her  round  in  ten  minutes  " 
Long  atter  every  one  else  in  Bm-wood,  even  the  chafing  ex- 
cited Rose,  was  asleep,  Catherine,  in  her  dimly  lighted  room 
where  the  stormy  north-west  wind  beat  noisily  against  her 
wmdow,  was  sitting  in  a  low  chair,  her  head  leaning  against 
her  bed,  her  httle  weU-wom  Testament  open  on  her  knee  But 
she  was  not  readibg.   Her  eyes  were  shut;  one  hand"  hung 
down  beside  her,  and  tears  were  raining  fast  and  sUently  over 
her  cheeks.   It  was  the  stillest,  most  restrained  weeping 
She  hardly  knew  why  she  wept,  she  only  knew  that  there 
was  something  within  her  which  must  have  its  way.  What 
md  this  inner  smart  and  tumult  mean,  this  rebellion  of  the 
self  against  the  will  which  had  never  yet  found  its  mastery 
tail  It?  It  was  as  though  from  her  childhood  till  now  she  had 
lived  m  a  moral  world  whereof  the  aims,  the  dangers,  the  joys 
were  aU  she  knew;  and  now  the  waUs  of  this  w^rld  wS 
crumbhng  round  her,  and  strange  hghts,  strange  voices, 
strange  colors  were  breaking  through.   All  the  Ljmgs  of 

S'thifi  'i*''''**^  her  heart  for  years,  to-Sght 

for  the  first  time  seemed  to  her  no  longer  sayings  of  comfort 
or  command,  but  sayings  of  fire  and  flame  that  burn  their 
coercing  way  through  life  and  thought.  We  recite  so  glibly: 
He  that  loseth  his  life  shall  save  it;"  and  when  we  come  to 
any  of  the  common  crises  of  experience  which  are  the  source 
and  the  sanction  of  the  words,  flesh  and  blood  recofl.  This  girl 
amid  her  mountains  had  carried  reUgion  as  far  as  rehgion  can 
be  carried  before  it  meets  life  in  the  wrestle  appoSited  it 
The  calm,  simple  outlines  of  things  are  blurring  before  her 
eyes;  the  great  placid  deeps  .of  the  soul  are  breaking  up 

...1    n  F^"*-^*  T,^*'''  ^  of  tliis  kind  is  hardly 

real.   Catherine  felt  a  bitter  surprise  at  her  own  pain  Yes- 

Senid^wnl  ''^''''^  ^ 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


143 


Simply  a  pair  of  reproachful  eyes,  a  pale,  protesting  face. 
What  trifles  compared  to  the  awful  necessities  of  an  infinite 
obedience!  And  yet  they  haunt  her,  till  her  heart  aches  for 
misery,  till  she  only  yearns  to  be  counseled,  to  be  forgiven,  to 
be  at  least  understood. 

Why,  why  am  I  so  weak?"  she  cried,  in  utter  abasement  Of 
soul,  and  knew  not  that  in  that  weakness,  or  rather  in  the 
founts  of  character  from  which  it  sprung,  lay  the  innermost 
safeguard  of  her  life. 

CHAPTER  IX. 
Robert  was  very  nearly  reduced  to  despair  by  the  scene  with 
Catherine  we  have  described.  He  spent  a  brooding  and  miser- 
able hour  in  the  vicar's  study  afterward,  making  up  his  mind 
as  to  what  he  should  do.  One  phrase  of  hers  which  had  passed 
almost  unnoticed  in  the  shock  of  the  moment  was  now  ringing 
in  his  ears,  maddening  him  by  a  sense  of  joy  just  within  his 
reach,  and  yet  barred  away  from  him  by  an  obstacle  as  strong 
as  it  was  intangible.  We  are  not  here  only  to  be  happy,''  she 
had  said  to  him,  with  a  look  of  ethereal  exaltation  worthy  of  her 
namesake  of  Alexandria.  The  words  had  slipped  from  her 
involuntarily  in  the  spiritual  tension  of  her  mood.  They 
were  now  filling  Robert  Elsmere's  mind  with  a  tormenting, 
torturing  bliss.  What  could  they  mean?  What  had  her  pale- 
ness, her  evident  trouble  and  weakness  meant,  but  that  the 
inmost  self  of  hers  was  his,  was  conquered;  and  that,  but  for 
the  shadowy  obstacle  between  them,  all  would  be  weU? 

As  for  the  obstacle  in  itself,  he  did  not  admit  its  force  for  a 
moment.  No  sane  and  practical  man,  least  of  all  when  that 
man  happened  to  be  Catherine  Leyburn's  lover,  could  regard 
it  as  a  binding  obligation  upon  her  that  she  should  sacrifice  her 
own  life  and  happiness  to  three  persons,  who  were  in  no  evi- 
dent moral  straits,  no  physical  or  pecuniary  need,  and  who,  as 
Rose  incoherently  put  it,  might  very  well  be  rather  braced 
than  injured  by  the  withdrawal  of  her  strong  support. 

But  the  obstacle  of  character— ah,  there  was  a  different  mat- 
ter !  He  realized  with  despair  the  brooding  scrupulous  force  of 
moral  passion  to  which  her  lonely  life,  her  antecedents,  and  her 
father's  nature  working  in  her  had  given  so  rare  and  marked 
a  development.  No  temper  in  the  world  is  so  little  open  to  rea- 
son as  the  ascetic  temper.  How  many  a  lover  and  husband, 
bow  many  a  parent  and  friend,  have  realiized  to  their  pam^ 


144 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


since  history  began,  the  overwhelming  attraction  which  all  the 
processes  of  self-annihilation  have  for  a  certain  order  of  minds! 
Eobert's  heart  sunk  before  the  memory  of  that  frail,  indomita- 
ble look,  that  aspect  of  sad  yet  immovable  conviction  with 
which  she  had  bade  him  farewell.  And  yet,  surely— surely 
under  the  willingness  of  the  spirit  there  had  been  a  pitiful,  a 
most  womanly  weakness  of  the  flesh.  Surely,  now  memory  re- 
produced the  scene,  she  had  been  white— trembhng:  her  hand 
had  rested  on  the  moss-grown  wall  beside  her  for  support.  Oh, 
why  had  he  been  so  timid?  why  had  he  let  that  awe  of  her, 
which  her  personahty  produced  so  readily,  stand  between  them? 
why  had- he  not  boldly  caught  her  to  himself,  and,  with  all 
the  eloquence  of  a  passionate  nature,  trampled  on  her  scruples, 
marched  through  her  doubts,  convinced— reasoned  her  into  a 
blessed  submission  ? 

And  I  will  do  it  yet!"  he  cried,  leaping  to  his  feet  with  a 
sudden  access  of  hope  and  energy.  And  he  stood  awhile  look- 
ing out  into  the  rainy  evening,  all  the  keen,  irregular  face  and 
thin,  pliant  form  hardening  into  the  intensity  of  resolve,  which 
had  so  often  carried  the  young  tutor  through  an  Oxford  diffi- 
culty, breaking  down  antagonism  and  compelling  consent. 

At  the  high  tea  which  represented  the  late  dinner  of  the 
household  he  was  wary  and  self-possessed.  Mrs.  Thornburgh 
got  out  of  him  that  he  had  been  for  a  walk,  and  had  seen  Cath- 
erine, but  for  all  her  ingenuities  of  cross-examination  she  got 
nothing  more.  Afterward,  when  he  and  the  vicar  were  smok- 
ing together,  he  proposed  to  Mr.  Thornburgh  that  they  two 
should  go  off  for  a  couple  of  days  on  a  walking  tour  to  Ulls- 
water. 

want  to  go  away,"  he  said,  with  a  hand  on  the  vicar's 
shoulder,  ''and  I  want  to  come  bach''  The  deliberation  of  the 
last  words  was  not  to  be  mistaken.  The  vicar  emitted  a  coil 
tented  puff,  looked  the  young  man  straight  in  the  eyes,  and  with- 
out another  word  began  to  plan  a  walk  to  Patterdale  via  High 
Street,  Martindale,  and  Howtown,  and  back  by  Haweswater. 

To  Mrs.  Thornburgh  Eobert  annoimced  that  he  must  leave 
them  on  the  following  Saturday,  June  24. 

"You  have  given  me  a  good  time,  Cousin  Emma,"  he  said 
to  her,  with  a  bright  friendliness  which  dumbfounded  her.  A 
good  time,  indeed!  with  everything  begun  and  nothing  fin- 
ished; with  two  households  thrown  into  perturbation  for  a  de- 
lusion, and  a  desirable  marriage  spoiled,  all  for  want  of  a  little 


KOBERT  ELSMERE. 


145 


common  sense  and  plain  speaking,  which  one  person  at  least  m 
the  valley  could  have  supplied  them  with,  had  she  not  been  ig- 
nored and  browbeaten  on  all  sides.  She  contained  herself, 
however,  in  his  presence,  but  the  vicar  suffered  proportionately 
in  the  privacy  of  the  connubial  chamber.  He  had  never  seen 
his  wife  so  exasperated.  To  think  what  might  have  been,  what 
she  might  have  done  for  the  race,  but  for  the  whims  of  two 
stuck-up,  superior,  impracticable  young  persons,  that  would 
neither  manage  their  own  affairs  nor  allow  other  people  to 
manage  them  for  them!  The  vicar  behaved  gallantly,  kept 
the  secret  of  Elsmere's  remark  to  himself  like  a  man,  and  aL 
lowed  himself  certain  counsels  against  matrimonial  meddling 
which  plunged  Mrs.  Thornburgh  into  well -simulated  slumber. 
However,  in  the  morning  he  was  vaguely  conscious  that  some 
time  in  the  visions  of  the  night  his  spouse  had  demanded  of 
him,  peremptorily:  When  do  you  get  back,  William?''  To 
the  best  of  his  memory  the  vicar  had  sleepOy  murmured  : 
Thursday;"  and  had  then  heard,  echoed  through  his  dreams, 
a  calculating  whisper:  ^^He  goes  Saturday- one  clear  day!" 

The  following  morning  was  gloomy  but  fine,  and  after  breaks 
fast  the  vicar  and  Elsmere  started  off.  Eobert  turned  back  at 
the  top  of  the  High  FeU  pass  and  stood  leaning  on  his  alpen- 
stock, sending  a  passionate  farewell  to  the  gray  distant  house, 
the  upper  window,  the  copper  beach  in  the  garden,  the  bit  of 
winding  road,  while  the  vicar  discreetly  stepped  on  northward, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  wild  regions  of  Martindale. 

Mrs.  Thornburgh,  left  alone,  absorbed  herself  to  all  appear- 
ance in  the  school  treat  which  was  to  come  off  in  a  fortnight,  in 
a  new  set  of  covers  for  the  drawing-room,  and  in  Sarah's  love 
affairs,  which  were  always  passing  through  some  tragic  phase 
or  other,  and  into  which  Mrs.  Thornburgh  was  allowed  a  more 
unencumbered  view  than  she  was  into  Catherine  Leyburn's. 
Eose  and  Agnes  dropped  in  now  and  then,  and  found  her  not 
at  all  disposed  to  talk  to  them  on  the  great  event  of  the  day— 
Elsmere's  absence  and  approaching  departure.  They  cautiously 
communicated  to  her  their  own  suspicions  as  to  the  incident  of 
the  preceding  afternoon;  and  Eose  gave  vent  to  one  fiery  on- 
slaught on  the  ''moral  obstacle"  theory,  during  which  Mrs. 
Thornburgh  sat  studying  her  with  small  attentive  eyes  and 
curls  slowly  waving  from  side  to  side.  But  for  once  in  her  life 
the  vicar's  wife  was  not  communicative  in  return.  That  the 
situation  should  have  driven  even  Mrs.  Thornburgh  to  finesse 


146 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


was  a  surprising  testimony  to  its  gravity.  "What  between  her 
sudden  taciturnity  and  Catherine's  pale  silence,  the  girl's  sense 
of  expectancy  was  roused  to  its  highest  pitch. 

'^They  come  back  to-morrow  night,"  said  Eose,  thought- 
fully, '^and  he  goes  Saturday— 10:20  from  Whinborough  -one 
day  for  the  fifth  act!  By  the  way,  why  did  Mrs.  Thornburgh 
ask  us  to  say  nothing  about  Saturday  at  home  ?" 

She  had  asked  them,  however;  and  with  a  pleasing  sense  of 
conspiracy  they  complied. 

It  was  late  on  Thursday  afternoon  when  Mrs.  Thornburgh, 
finding  the  Burwood  front  door  open,  made  her  unchallenged^ 
way  into  the  hall,  and  after  an  unanswered  knock  at  the  draw- 
ing-room door,  opened  it  and  peered  in  to  see  who  might  be 
there. 

May  I  come  in?"  ' 
Mrs.  Leyburn,  who  was  a  trifle  deaf,  was  sitting  by  the  win- 
dow absorbed  in  the  intricacies  of  a  heel  which  seemed  to  her 
more  than  she  could  manage.  Her  card  was  mislaid,  the  girls 
were  none  of  them  at  hand,  and  she  felt  as  helpless  as  she  com- 
monly did  when  left  alone. 

''Oh,  do  come  in,  please!  So  glad  to  see  you.  Have  you 
been  nearly  blown  away  ?" 

For,  though  the  rain  had  stopped,  a  boisterous  north-west 
wind  was  stOl  rushing  through  the  valley,  and  the  trees  round 
Burwood  were  swaying  and  groaning  under  the  force  of  its  on- 
slaught. 

''Well,  it  is  stormy,"  said  Mrs.  Thornburgh,  stepping  in  and 
undoing  all  the  various  safety-pins  and  elastics  which  had  held 
her  dress  high  above  the  mud.      Are  the  girls  out  ?" 

"Yes,  Catherine  and  Agnes  are  at  the  school;  and  Rose,  I 
think,  is  practicing." 

&  ''Ah,  well,"  said  Mrs.  Thornburgh,  settling  herself  in  a 
chair  close  by  her  friend,  "I  wanted  to  find  you  alone." 

Her  face,  framed  in  bushy  curls  and  an  old  garden  bonnet, 
was  flushed  and  serious.  Her  mittened  hands  were  clasped 
nervously  on  her  lap,  and  there  was  about  her  such  an  air  of 
forcibly  restrained  excitement  that  Mrs.  Leyburn's  mild  eyes 
gazed  at  her  with  astonishment.  The  two  women  were  a  curi- 
ous contrast:  Mrs.  Thornburgh  short,  inclined,  as  we  know,  to 
be  stout,  ample  and  abounding  in  all  things,  whether  it  were 
curls  or  cap-strings  or  conversation ;  Mrs.  Leyburn  tall  and 
wen-proportioned,  well  dresse#^         the  same  graceful  ways 


ROBERT  ELSMERE.  ' 

and  languid  pretty  manners  as  had  first  attracted  ker  hus- 
band's attention  thirty  years  before.  She  was  fond  of  Mrs. 
Thornburgh,  but  there  was  something  in  the  ebuUient  energies 
of  the  vicar's  wife  which  always  gave  her  a  sense  of  bustle  and 

^^^^f^a'm  sure  you  wHl  be  sorry  to  hear,"  began  her  visitor, 

that  Mr.  Elsmere  is  going." 
Going?"  said  Mrs.  Leybum,  laying  down  her  knitting. 

Why,  I  thought  he  was  going  to  stay  with  you  another  ten 
days  at  least." 

*'So  did  I— so  did  he,"  said  Mrs.  Thornburgh,  nodding,  an^ 
then  pausing  with  a  most  effective  air  of  sudden  gravity  and 
recollection."  '       ,  t 

/^Then  why-what's  the  matter?"  asked  Mrs.  Leyburn, 

wondering.  ^  .    ^  . 

Mrs  Thornburgh  did  not  answer  for  a  minute,  and  Mrs. 
Leybum  began  to  feelja  Uttle  nervous,  her  visitors  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  her  with  so  much  meaning.  Urged  by  a  sudden 
impulse  she  bent  forward;  so  did  Mrs.  Thornburgh,  and  their 
two  elderly  heads  nearly  touched. 

The  young  man  is  in  love !"  said  the  vicar's  wife,  m  a  stage- 
whisper,  drawing  back  after  a  pause  to  see  the  effect  of  her 

announcement.  i    i      •  -u^ 

Oh!  with  whom  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Leyburn,  her  look  bright- 
ening.  She  liked  a  love  affair  as  much  as  ever.  • 

Mrs  Thornburgh  furtively  looked  round  to  see  if  the  door 
was  shut  and  aU  safe-she  felt  herself  a  criminal,  but  the  sense 
of  guilt  had  an  exhilarating  rather  than  a  depressing  effect 

upon  her.  .  ,  ^  ,  •, 

Have  you  guessed  nothing?  have  the  girls  told  you  any- 

thing?"  .  ... 

No !"  said  Mrs.  Leyburn,  her  eyes  opening  wider  and  wider. 
She  never  guessed  anything;  there  was  no  need,  with  three 
daughters  to  think  for  her,  and  give  her  the  benefit  of  their 
young  brains.  No,"  she  said  again.  I  can't  imagine  what 
you  mean." 

Mrs.  Thornburgh  felt  a  rush  of  inward  contempt  for  so  much 
obtuseness. 

**Well,  then,  he  is  in  love  with  Catherine  she  said,  ab- 
ruptly, laying  her  hand  on  Mrs.  Leyburn's  knee,  and  watching 
the  effect 


148 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


With  Catherine  I"  stammered  Mrs.  Leyburn ;  ^^with  Cath 

erine  /" 

The  idea  was  amazing  to  her.  She  took  up  her  knitting  with  i 
trembling  fingers,  and  went  on  with  it  mechanically  a  second  I 
or  two.  Then  laying  it  down — Are  you  quite  sure?  has  he 
told  you?" 

''No,  but  one  has  eyes,"  said  Mrs.  Thornburgh,  hastily. 
'^WilHam  and  I  have  seen  it  from  the  very  first  day.  And  i 
we  are  both  certain  that  on  Tuesday  she  made  him  understand  i 
in  someway  or  other  that  she  wouldn't  marry  him,  and  that  is 5 
why  he  went  off  to  Ullswater,  and  why  he  made  up  his  mind  I 
to  go  south  before  his  time  is  up." 

''Tuesday?"  cried  Mrs.  Leyburn.     *'In  that  walk,  do  youv 
mean,  when  Catherine  looked  so  tired  afterward?   You  think 
he  proposed  in  that  walk?" 

She  was  in  a  maze  of  bewilderment  and  excitement. 

''Something  like  it — but  if  he  did,  she  said  'No;'  and  what 
I  want  to  know  is  why  she  said  '  No.'  " 

^'  Why,  of  course,  because  she  didn't  care  for  him !"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Leyburn,  opening  her  blue  eyes  wider  and  wider.  * '  Cath- 
erine's not  like  most^  girls ;  she  would  always  know  what  she 
felt,  and  would  never  keep  a  man  in  suspense." 

"Well,  I  don't  somehow  believe,"  said  Mrs.  Thornburgh, 
boldly,  "that  she  doesn't  care  for  him.  He  is  just  the  young 
man  Catherine  might  care  for.   You  can  see  that  yourself." 

Mrs.  Leyburn  once  more  laid  down  her  knitting  and  stared 
at  her  visitor.  Mrs.  Thornburgh,  after  aU  her  meditations, 
had  no  very  precise  idea  as  to  why  she  was  at  that  moment  in 
the  Burwood  drawing-room  bombarding  Mrs.  Leyburn  in  this 
fashion.  All  she  knew  was  that  she  had  sallied  forth  deter- 
mined somehow  to  upset  the  situation,  just  as  one  gives  a  shake 
purposely  to  a  bundle  of  spillikins  on  the  chance  of  more  favor- 
able openings.  Mrs.  Leyburn's  mind  was  just  now  playing  the 
part  of  spillikins,  and  the  vicar's  wife  was  shaking  it  vigorous- 
ly, though  with  occasional  qualms  as  to  the  lawfulness  of  the 
process. 

"You  think  Catherine  does  care  for  him?"  resumed  Mrs. 
Leyburn,  tremulously. 

"Well,  isn't  he  just  the  kind  of  man  one  would  suppose 
Catherine  would  like?"  repeated  Mrs.  Thornburgh,  persuasive 
y;  "he  is  a  clergyman,  and  she  likes  serious  people;  and  he's 
sensible  and  nice  and  weU-naaanered.   And  then  he  can  talk 


EOBEBT  ELSMERE.  ^  ^  ^ 

about  books,  just  like  her  father  used-I'm  sure  WiUiam  thinks 
he  knows  everything!  He  isn't  as  nice-lookmg  as  he  might  be 
iust  now,  but  then  that's  his  hair  and  his  fever,  poor  man 
And  the^  he  isn't  hanging  about.  He's  got  a  l^vmg  and 
there'd  be  the  poor  people  all  ready,  and  everythmg  else  Cath- 
erine Ukes.  And  now  I'U  just  ask  you-did  you  ever  see  Cath- 
eSSe  more-more-Zfoe??/-welI,  I  know  that's  not  just  the 
word,  but  you  know  what  I  mean-than  she  has  been  the  last 

^%utMm  Leybm-n  only  shook  her  head  helplessly.  She  did 
not  know  in  the  least  what  Mrs.  Thomburgh  meant  She 
never  thought  Catherine  doleful,  and  she  agreed  that  certainly 
"lively"  was  not  the  word.  „j 

"Girls  get  so  frightfuUy  particular  nowadays,"  contmued 
the  vicar's  wife,  with  reflective  candor.  "  Why,  when  Wxlham 
fell  in  love  with  me,  I  just  fell  in  love  with  him-at  once-be- 
cause  he  did  And  if  it  hadn't  beenWiUiam,  but  somebody 
eClt  would  have  been  the  same.  I  don't  believe  girls  have 
got  hearts  Uke  pebbles-if  the  man's  nice,  of  course! 

Mrs  Leyburn  listened  to  this  summary  of  matrimomal  phi- 
losophy with  the  same  yielding,  flurried  attention  as  she  was 
alwavs  disposed  to  give  to  the  last  speaker. 

"But!''  she  said,  still  in  a  maze,  "if  she  did  care  for  him, 
why  should  she  send  him  away?"  ™      ,  t, 

'^Because  she  won'*  have  UmT  said  Mrs.  Thornburgh,  en- 
ergetically, leaning  over  the  arm  of  her  chair  that  she  might 
bring  herself  nearer  to  her  companion. 

The  fatuity  of  the  answer  left  Mrs.  Leyburn  staring. 

"Because  she  won't  have  him,  my  dear  Mrs.  Leyburn !  And 
-and-I'msure  nothing  would  make  me  interfere  like  this  if 
I  weren't  so  fond  of  you  all,  and  if  WUliam  and  I  didn't  know 
for  certain  that  there  never  was  abetter  young  man  born! 
And  then  I  was  just  sure  you'd  be  the  last  person  m  the  world, 
if  you  knew,  to  stand  in  young  people's  way !" 
^  "  I  r"  cried  poor  Mrs.  Leyburn-"  I  stand  in  the  way !  She 
was  getting  tremulous  and  tearful,  and  Mrs.  Thomburgh  felt 
herself  a  brute. 

"WeU,"  she  said,  plunging  on  desperately,  I  have  been 
thinking  over  it  night  and  day.  I've  been  watching  him,  and 
I've  been  talking  to  the  girls,  and  I've  been  putting  two  and 
two  together,  and  I'm  just  about  sure  that  there  might  be  a 


150 


ROBERT  ELSMERB, 


chance  for  Eobert,  if  only  Catherine  didn't  feel  that  you  and 
the  girls  couldn't  get  on  without  her!" 

Mrs.  Leyburn  took  up  her  knitting  again  with  agitated  fin- 
gers. She  was  so  long  in  answering  that  Mrs.  Thomburgh  sat 
and  thought  with  trepidation  of  all  sorts  of  unpleasant  conse- 
sequences  which  might  result  from  this  audacious  move  of  hers. 

''I  don't  know  how  we  should  get  on,"  cried  Mrs.  Leyburn 
at  last,  with  a  sort  of  suppressed  sob,  while  something  very 
like  a  tear  fell  on  the  stocking  she  held. 

Mrs.  Thornburgh  was  still  more  frightened,  and  rushed  into 
a  flood  of  apologetic  speech.  Very  likely  she  was  wrong,  per- 
haps it  was  all  a  mistake,  she  was  afraid  she  had  done  harm, 
and  so  on.  Mrs.  Leyburn  took  very  little  heed,  but  at  last  she 
said,  looking  up  and  applying  a  soft  handkerchief  gently  to  her 
eyes: 

Is  his  mother  nice?  Where's  his  living?  Would  he  want 
to  be  married  soon?" 

The  voice  was  weak  and  tearful,  but  there  was  in  it  unmis- 
takable eagerness  to  be  informed.  Mrs.  Thomburgh,  over- 
joyed, let  loose  upon  her  a  flood  of  particulars,  painted  the 
virtues  and  talents  of  Mrs.  Elsmere,  described  Eobert's  Oxford 
career,  with  an  admirable  sense  for  effect  and  a  truly  feminine 
capacity  for  murdering  every  university  detail,  drew  pictures 
of  the  Murew-ell  living  and  rectory,  of  which  Eobert  had  pho- 
tographs with  him,  threw  in  adroit  information  about  the 
young  man's  private  means,  and  in  general  showed  what  may 
be  made  of  a  woman's  mind  under  the  stimulus  of  one  of  the 
occupations  most  proper  to  it.  Mrs.  Leyburn  brightened  visi- 
bly as  the  flobd  proceeded.  Alas,  poor  Catherine !  How  little 
room  there  is  for  the  heroic  in  this  trivial  every-day  life  of 
ours! 

Catherine  a  bride,  Catherine  a  wife  and  mother,  dim  visions 
of  a  white,  soft  morsel  in  which  Catherine's  eyes  and  smile 
should  live  again— all  these  thoughts  went  trembling  and  flash- 
ing through  Mrs.  Leyburn's  mind  as  she  listened  to  Mrs. 
Thornburgh.  There  is  so  much  of  the  artist  in  the  maternal 
liiind,  of  the  artist  who  longs  to  see  the  work  of  his  hand  in 
fresh  combinations  and  under  all  points  of  view.  Catherine, 
in  the  heat  of  her  own  self -surrender,  had  perhaps  forgotten 
that  her  mother  too  had  a  heart ! 

Yes,  it  all  sounds  very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Leyburn  at  last, 
sighing,  *'but,  you  kuow,  Catherine  isn't  easy  to  mana.ge." 


BOBERT  ELSMERBJ. 


15i 


^X'ould  you  talk  to  her— find  out  a  little?" 
Well,  not  to-day;  I  shall  hardly  see  her.  Doesn't  it  seem 
to  you  that  when  a  girl  takes  up  notions  like  Catherine's,  she 
hasn't  time  for  thinking  about  the  young  men?  Why,  she's  as 
full  of  business  all  day  long  as  an  egg's  full  of  meat.  Well,  it 
was  my  poor  Eichard's  doing— it  was  his  doing,  bless  him  I  I 
am  not  going  to  say  anything  against  it.  But  it  was  different 
— once." 

Yes,  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Thornburgh,  ttioughtfully.  One 
had  plenty  of  time,  when  you  and  I  were  young,  to  sit  at  home 
and  think  what  one  was  going  to  wear,  and  how  one  would 
look,  and  whether  he  had  been  paying  attention  to  any  one 
else;  and  if  he  had,  why;  and  all  that.  And  now  the  young 
women  are  so  superior.  But  the  marrying  has  got  to  be.  done 
somehow,  all  the  same.   What  is  she  doing  to-day?" 

''Oh,  she'll  be  busy  all  to-day  and  to-morrow;  I  hardly  ex- 
pect^to  see  her  till  Saturday." 

Mrs.  Thornburgh  gave  a  start  of  dismay. 

''Why,  what  is  the  matter  now?"  she  cried  in  her  most 
aggrieved  tones.  "My  dear  Mrs.  Leyburn,  one  would  think 
we  had  the  cholera  in  the  parish.  Catherine  just  spoils  the 
people." 

"Don't  you  remember,"  said  Mrs.  Leyburn,  staring  in  her 
turn,  and  drawing  herself  up  a  little,  "that  to-morrow  is  Mid- 
summer-day, and  that  Mary  Backhouse  is  as  bad  as  she  can  be?" 

"Mary  Backhouse!  Why,  I  had  forgotten  all  about  her!" 
cried  the  vicar's  wife,  with  sudden  remorse.  And  she  sat  pen- 
sively eying  the  carpet  awhile. 

^hen  she  got  what  particulars  she  could  out  of  Mrs.  Ley- 
burn.  Catherine,  it  appeared,  was  at  this  moment  at  High 
Grhyll,  was  not  to  return  till  late,  and  would  be  with  the  dying 
girl  through  the  greater  part  of  the  following  day,  returning 
for  an  hour  or  two's  rest  in  the  afternoon,  and  staying  in  the 
evening  till  the  twilight,  in  which  the  ghost  always  made  her 
appearances,  should  have  passed  into  night. 

Mrs.  Thornburgh  listened  to  it  all,  her  contriving  mind  work- 
ing the  while  at  railway  speed  on  the  facts  presented  to  her. 

"How  do  you  get  her  home  to-morrow  night?"  she  asked, 
with  sudden  animation. 

"Oh,  we  send  our  man  Richard  at  ten.  He  takes  a  lantern 
if  it's  dark." 

Mrs.  Thornburgh  said  no  more.  Her  eyes  and  gestures  were 


152 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


all  alive  again  with  energy  and  hope.  She  had  given  her  shake 
to  Mrs.  Leyburn's  mind.  Much  good  might  it  do !  But,  after 
all,  she  had  the  poorest  opinion  of  the  widow's  capacities  as  an 
ally. 

She  and  her  companion  said  a  few  more  excited,  affection- 
ate, and  apologetic  things  to  one  another,  and  then  she  departed. 

Both  mother  and  knitting  were  found  by  Agnes  half  an  hour 
later  in  a  state  of  considerable  confusion.  But  Mrs.  Leyburn 
kept  her  own  counsel,  having  resolved  for  once.,  with  a^timid 
and  yet  dehcious  excitement,  to  act  as  the  head  of  the  family. 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Thomburgh  was  laying  pltins  of  jher  own 
account. 

''Ten  o'clock— moonlight,"  said  that  contriving  person  to 
herself,  going  home— "at  least  if  the  clouds  hold  up— that'll 
do — couldn't  be  better. " 

To  any  person  familiar  with  her  character,  the  signs  of  some 
unusual  preoccupation  were  clear  enough  in  Mrs.  Leyburn  dur- 
ing this  Thursday  evening.  Catherine  noticed' them  at  once 
when  she  got  back  from  High  Ghyll  about  eight  o'clock,  and 
wondered  first  of  all  what  was  the  matter;  and  then,  with  more 
emphasis,  why  the  trouble  was  not  immediately  communicated 
to  her.  It  had  never  entered  into  her  head  to  take  her  mother 
into  her  confidence  with  regard  to  Elsmere.  Since  she  could 
remember,  it  had  been  an  axiom  in  the  family  to  spare  the  del- 
icate nervous  mother  all  the  anxieties  and  perplexities  of  life. 
It  was  a  system  in  which  the  subject  of  it  had  always  acqui- 
esced with  perfect  contentment,  and  Catherine  had  no  qualms 
about  it.  If  there  was  good  news,  it  was  presented  in  its  most 
sugared  f oi*m  to  Mrs.  Leyburn ;  but  the  moment  any  element 
of  pain  and  difficulty  cropped  up  in  the  common  life,  it  was 
pounced  upon  and  appropriated  by  Catherine,  aided  and  abet- 
ted by  the  girls,  and  Mrs.  Leyburn  knew  no  more  about  it 
than  an  unweaned  babe. 

So  that  Catherine  was  thinking  at  most  of  some  misconduct 
of  a  Perth  dyer  with  regard  to  her  mother's  best  gray  poplin, 
when  one  of  the  greatest  surprises  of  her  life  burst  upon  her. 

She  was  in  Mrs.  Leyburn's  bedroom  that  night,  helping  to 
put  away  her  mother's  things,  as  her  custom  was.  She  had 
just  taken  off  the  widow's  cap,  caressing  as  she  did  so  the 
brown  hair  underneath,  which  was  still  soft  and  plentiful, 
when  Mrs.  Leyburn  turned  upon  her.    ''  Catherine!"  she  said, 


BOBEET  ELSMERE. 


153 


in  an  agitated  voice,  laying  a  thin  hand  on  her  daugkter's  arm. 
V*  Oh,  Catherine,  I  want  to  speak  to  you!'' 

Catherine  knelt  Hghtly  down  by  her  mother's  side,  and  put 
her  arms  round  her  waist. 

Yes,  mother,  darling,"  she  said,  half  smiling. 

**0h,  Catherine!  if—if— you  like  Mr.  Elsmere,  don't  mind 
—don't  think— about  us,  dear.  We  can  manage— we  can  man- 
age, dear!" 

i  The  change  that  took  place  in  Catherine  Leyburn's  face  is 
indescribable.  She  rose  instantly,  her  arms  faUing  behind  her, 
her  beautiful  brows  drawn  together.  Mrs.  Leyburn  looked  up 
at  her  with  a  pathetic  juixture  of  helplessness,  alarm,  entreaty. 

''Mother,  who  has  been  talking  to  you  about  Mr.  Elsmere 
and  me  ?"  demanded  Catherine. 

''Oh,  never  mind,  dear;  never  mind,"  said  the  widow, 
hastily;  "I  should  have  seen  it  myself— oh,  I  know  I  should; 
but  I'm  a  bad  mother,  Catherine!"  And  she  caught  her 
^daughter's  dress  and  drew  her  toward  her.  "  Do  you  care  for 
him  ?" 

Catherine  did  not  answer.  She  knelt  down  again,  and  laid 
her  head  on  her  mother's  hands. 

"I  w9»t  Bothing,"  she  said,  presently,  in  a  low  voice  of  in- 
tense ei7>otion— "  I  want  nothing  but  you  and  the  girls.  You 
are  my  life,  I  ask  for  nothing  more.  I  am  abundantly—con- 
tent." 

Mrst>  Leyburn  gazed  down  on  her  with  infinite  perplexity. 
The  brown  hair,  escaped  from  the  cap,  had  fallen  about  her 
still  pretty  neck,  a  pink  spot  of  excitement  was  on  each  gently 
hollowed  cheek;  she  looked  almost  younger  than  her  pale 
daughter. 

"But— he  is  very  nice,"  she  said,  timidly.  "And  he  has  a 
good  Hving.    Catherine,  you  ought  to  be  a  clergyman's  wife." 

"I  ought  to  be,  and  I  am  your  daughter,"  said  Catherine 
smihng  a  little  with  an  unsteady  lip,  and  kissing  her  hand. 

Mrs.  Leyburn  sighed  and  looked.^traight  before  her.  Per- 
haps in  imagination  she  saw  the  vicar's  wife.  "I  think— I 
think,"  she  said,  very  seriously,  "  I  should  like  it !" 

Catherine  straightened  herself  brusquely  at  that.  It  was  as 
though  she  had  felt  a  blow. 

"Mother!"  she  cried,  with  a  stifled  accent  of  pain,  and  yet 
still  trying  to  smile,  "  do  you  want  to  send  me  away  ?" 

"No,  no!"  cried  Mrs.  Leyburn,  hastily.   But  if  a  nice  man 


154 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


wants  you*to  marry  him,  Cathrine  ?  Your  father  would  havt  1 
liked  him— oh,  I  know  your  father  would  have  liked  him!  And  * 
his  manners  to  me  are  so  pretty,  I  shouldn't  mind  being  Ms  ! 
mother-in-law.  And  the  girls  have  no  brother,  you  know,  , 
dear.   Your  father  was  always  so  sorry  about  that." 

She  spoke  with  pleading  agitation,  her  own  tempting  imag 
inations— the  pallor,  the  latent  storm  of  Catherine's  look- 
exciting  her  more  and  more. 

Catherine  was  silent  a  moment,  then  she  caught  her  mother's  \ 
hand  again. 

Dear  little  mother— dear,  kind  little  mother!  You  are  an  i 
angel,  you  always  are.  But  I  think,  if  you'll  keep  me,  I'll  I 
stay." 

And  she  once  more  rested  her  head  clingingly  on  Mrs.  Ley- 
burn's  knee. 

But  do  you— do  you  love  him,  Catherine  ?" 
love  you,  mother,  and  the  girls,  and  my  life  here." 
.    *'0h,  dear,"  sighed  Mrs.  Leyburn,  as  though  addressing  a 
third  person,  the  tears  in  her  mild  eyes,  ''she  won't,  and  she 
ivould  Hke  it,  and  so  should  I !" 
Catherine  rose,  stung  beyond  bearing. 

''And  I  count  for  nothing  to  you,  mother!"  her  deep  voice 
quivering.  ^' You  could  put  me  aside,  you  and  the  girls,  and 
live  as  though  I  had  never  been !" 

"But  you  would  be  a  gxeat  deal  to  us  if  you  did  marry, 
Catherine!"  cried  Mrs.  Leyburn,  almost  with  an  accent  of  pet- 
tishness.  ' '  People  have  to  do  without  their  daughters.  There's 
Agnes— I  often  think,  as  it  is,  you  might  let  her  do  more.  And 
if  Eose  were  troublesome,  why,  you  know  it  might  be  a  good 
thing— a  very  good  thing— if  there  were  a  man  to  take  her  in 
band!" 

"And  you,  mother,  without  me?"  cried  poor  Catherine, 
choked. 

"Oh,  I  should  come  and  see  you,"  said  Mrs.  Leyburn, 
brightening.  '*  They  say  it  is  such  a  nice  house,  Catherine, 
and  such  pretty  country ;  and  I'm  siire  I  should  li^  his  mother, 
though  she  is  Irish !" 

It  was  the  bitterest  moment  of  Catherine  Leybum's  'ife.  In 
it  the  heroic  dream  of  years  broke  down.  Nay,  the  shriveling 
ironic  touch  of  circumstance  laid  upon  it  made  it  look  even  in 
her  own  eyes  almost  ridiculous.  What  had  she  been  living 
for,  praying  for,  all  these  years2  She  threw  herself  down  by 


I 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


155 


the  wi_dow-s  side,  her  face  working  with  a  passion  that  terri 
fied  Mrs.  Leyburn. 

Oh,  mother,  say  you  would  miss  me— say  you  would  miss 
me  if  I  went !" 

Then  Mrs.  Leyburn  herself  broke  down,  and  the  two  women 
clung  to  each  other,  weeping.  Catherine's  sore  heart  was 
soothed  a  httle  by  her  mother's  tears,  and  by  the  broken 
words  of  endearment  that  were  lavished  on  her.  But  through 
it  all  she  felt  that  the  excited  imaginative  desire  in  Mrs.  Ley- 
burn  stiU  persisted.  It  was  the  cheapening— the  vulgarizing, 
so  to  speak,  of  her  whole  existence. 

In  the  course  of  their  long  embrace  Mrs.  Leyburn  let  fall 
various  items  of  news  that  showed  Catherine  very  plainly 
who  had  been  at  work  upon  her  mother,  and  one  of  which 
startled  her. 

''He  comes  back  to-night,  my  dear— and  he  goes  on  Satur- 
day. Oh,  and,  Catherine,  Mrs.  Thornburgh  says  he  does  care 
so  much.    Poor  young  man!" 

And  Mrs.  Leyburn  looked  up  at  her  now  standing  daughter 
with  eyes  as  woe-begone  for  Eismere  as  for  herself. 

''Don't  talk  about  it  any  more,  mother,"  Catherine  im- 
plored. ''You  won't  sleep,  and  I  shall  be  more  wroth  with 
Mrs.  Thornburgh  than  I  am  already." 

Mrs.  Leyburn  let  herself  be  gradually  soothed  and  coerced, 
and  Catherine,  with  a  last  kiss  to  the  delicate,  emaciated  fin- 
gers on  which  the  worn  wedding-ring  lay  sHpping  forward— in 
itself  a  history— left  her  at  last  to  sleep. 

"And  I  don't  kiiow  much  more  than  when  I  began !"  sighed 
the  perplexed  widow  to  herself.  "  Oh,  I  wish  Eichard  was 
here— Idol" 

Catherine's  night  was  a  night  of  intense  mental  struggle. 
Her  struggle  was  one  with  which  the  modern  world  has  per- 
haps but  scant  sympathy.  Instinctively  we  feel  such  things 
out  of  place  in  our  easy  indifferent  generation.  We  think 
them  more  than  half  unreal.  We  are  so  apt  to  take  it  for 
granted  that  the  world  has  outgrown  the  religious  thirst  for 
sanctification,  for  a  perfect  moral  consistency,  as  it  has  out- 
grown so  many  of  the  older  complications  of  the  sentiment  of 
honor.  And  meanwhile  half  the  tragedy  of  our  time  lies  in 
this  perpetual  clashing  of  two  estimates  of  life— the  estimate 
which  is  the  offspring  of  the  scientific  spirit,  and  which  is  fov 


156 


ROBERT  ELSMERE, 


ever  making  the  visible  world  fairer  and  more  desirable  in  1  |j 
mortal  eyes;  and  the  estimate  of  Saint  Augustine.  ^  i 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  owing  to  some  traveling  difficulties,  the  '  j 
vicar  and  Elsmere  did  not  get  home  till  noon  on  Friday.  Cath-  g 
erine  knew  nothing  of  either  delay  or  arrival.  Mrs.  Leybum  i  f 
watched  her  with  anxious  timidity,  but  she  never  mentioned  '  [ 
Elsmere's  name  to  any  one  on  the  Friday  morning,  and  no  one  i  , 
dared  speak  of  him  to  her.  She  came  home  in  the  afternoon  '  ; 
from  the  Backhouses'  absorbed  apparently  in  the  state  of  the  j 
dying  girl,  took  a  couple  of  hours'  rest,  and  hurried  off  again.  , 
She  passed  the  vicarage  with  bent  head,  and  never  looked  up.  > 

*^She  is  gone!"  said  Rose  to  Agnes  as  she  stood  at  the  win- 
dow looking  affcer  her  sister's  retreating  figure.  *'It  is  all 
over  1  They  can't  meet  now.  He  will  be  off  by  nine  to-morrow. "  | 

The  girl  spoke  with  a  lump  in  her  throat,  and  flung  herself  | 
down  by  the  window,  moodily  watching  the  dark  form  against 
the  fells.    Catherine's  coldness  seemed  to  make  aU  life  colder 
and  niore  chilling— to  fling  a  hard  demal  in  the  face  of  the 
dearest  claims  of  earth. 

The  stormy  light  of  the  afternoon  was  fading  toward  sunset.  | 
Catherine  walked  on  fast  toward  the  group  of  houses  at  the 
nead  of  the  valley,  in  one  of  which  lived  the  two  old  carriers 
who  had  worked  such  havoc  with  Mrs.  Thomburgh's  house-  | 
keeping  arrangements.  She  was  tired  physically,^  but  she  was 
still  more  tired  mentally.  She  had  the  bruised  feeling  of  one 
who  has  been  humiliated  before  the  world  and  before  herself. 
Her  self-respect  was  for  the  moment  crushed,  and  the  breach 
made  in  the  wholeness  of  personal  dignity  had  produced  a 
strange  slackness  of  nerve,  extending  both  to  body  and  mind. 
She  had  been  convicted,  it  seemed  to  her,  in  her  own  eyes,  and  ! 
in  those  of  her  world,  of  an  egregious  overestimate  of  her  own 
value.  She  walked  with  hung  head  like  one  ashamed,  the 
overstrung  rehgious  sense  deepening  her  discomfiture  at  every 
step.  How  rich  her  life  had  always  been  in  the  conviction  of 
usefulness — nay,  indispensableness !  Her  mother's  persuasions 
had  dashed  it  from  her.  And  religious  scruple,  for  her  tor 
ment,  showed  her  her  past,  transformed,  alloyed  with  all  sorts 
of  personal  prides  and  cravings,  which  stood  unmasked  now  in 
a  white  light. 

And  be  ?  Still  near  her  for  a  few  short  hours  !  Ev^ery  pulse 
in  her  had  thrilled  as  she  had  passed  the  house  which  sheltered 
him.   But  she  will  see  him  no  more.   And  she  is  glad.   If  hQ 


ROBERT  ELSMERE.  157 

had  stayed  on,  lie  too  would  have  discovered  how  cheaply  they 
held  her— those  dear  ones  of  hers  for  whom  she  had  lived  till 
now!  And  she  might  have  weakly  yielded  to  his  pity  what 
she  had  refused  to  his  homage.  The  strong  nature  is  half  tor- 
tured, half  soothed  by  the  prospect  of  his  going.  Perhaps  when 
he  is  gone  she  will  recover  something  of  that  moral  equilibrium 
which  has  been  so  shaken.  At  present  she  is  a  riddle  to  her- 
self, invaded  by  a  force  she  has  no  power  to  cope  with,  feeling 
the  moral  groulid  of  years  crumbling  beneath  her,  and  strug- 
gling feverishly  f or « self-control. 

As  she  neared  the  head  of  the  valley  the  wind  became  less 
tempestuous.  The  great  wall  of  High  FeU,  toward  which  she 
was  walking,  seemed  to 'shelter  her  from  its  worst  violence. 
But  the  hurrying  clouds,  the  gleams  of  lurid  light  which  every 
now  and  then  penetrated  into  the  valley  from  the  west,  across 
the  dip  leading  to  Shanmoor,  the  voice  of  the  river  answering 
the  voice  of  the  wind,  and  the  deep  unbroken  shadow  that  cov- 
ered the  group  of  houses  and  trees  toward  which  she  was  walk- 
ing, all  served  to  heighten  the  nervous  depression  which  had 
taken  hold  of  her.  As  she  neared  the  bridge,  however,  leading 
to  the  little  hamlet,  beyond  which  north  v/ard  all  was  stony 
loneliness  and  desolation,  and  saw  in  front  of  her  the  gray 
stone  house,  backed  by  the  somber  red  of  a  great  copper  beech, 
and  overhung  by  crags,  she  had  perforce  to  take  herself  by 
both  handg,  try  and  reaUze  her  mission  afresh,  and  the  scene 
which  lay  before  her. 

.  CHAPTER  X. 

Mary  Backhouse,  the  girl  whom  Catherine  had  been  visit- 
ing with  regularity  for  many  weeks,  and  whose  frail  life  was 
this  evening  nearing  a  terrible  and  long-expected  crisis,  was  the 
victim  of  a  fate  sordid  and  common  enough,  yet  not  without 
its  elements  of  dark  poetry.  Some  fifteen  months  before  this 
mid-summer  day  she  had  been  the  mistress  of  the  lonely  old 
house  in  which  her  father  and  uncle  had  passed  their  whole 
lives,  in  which  she  had  been  born,  and  in  which,  amid  snow- 
drifts so  deep  that  no  doctor  could  reach  them,  her  mother  had 
passed  away.  She  had  been  then  strong  and  well  favored, 
possessed  of  a  certain  masculine  black-brov/ed  beauty,  and  of 
a  temper  which  sometimes  gave  to  it  an  edge  and  glow  such  as 
an  artist  of  ambition  migbjt  have  been  glad  to  catch.  At  the 
bottom  of  all  the  outward  sauvdgerie,  however,  there  was  a 


158 


BOBERT  ELSMERE. 


heart,  and  strong  wants,  which  only  affection  and  companion- 
ship could  satisfy  and  tame.    Neither  was  to  be  found  in  suf- 
ficient measure  within  her  home.    Her  father  and  she  were  or 
fairly  good  terms,  and  had  for  each  other  up  to  a  certain  point 
the  natural  instincts  of  kinship.    On  her  uncle,  whom  she  re- : 
garded  as  half-witted,  she  bestowed  alternate  tolerance  and  ' 
jeers.    She  was,  indeed,  the  only  person  whose  remonstrances 
ever  got  under  the  wool  with  old  Jim,  and  her  sharp  tongue 
had  sometimes  a  cowing  eiJect  on  his  curious  nonchalance] 
which  nothing  else  had.    For  the  rest,  they  had  no  neighbors 
with  whom  the  giii  could  fraternize,  and  Whinborough  was 
too  far  off  to  provide  any  adequate  food  for  her  vague  hunger 
after  emotion  and  excitement. 

In  this  dangerous  morbid  state  she  fell  a  victim  to  the  very 
coarse  attractions  of  a  young  farmer  in  the  neighboring  valley 
of  Shanmoor.  He  was  a  brute  with  a  handsome  face,  and  a 
nature  in  which  whatever  grains  of  heart  and  conscience  might 
have  been  interfused  with  the  original  composition  had  been 
long  since  swamped.  Mary,  who  had  recklessly  flung  herself 
into  his  power  on  one  or  two  occasions,  from  a  mixture  of  mo- 
tives, partly  passion,  partly  jealousy,  partly  ennui,  awoke  one 
day  to  find  herseK  rained,  and  a  grim  future  hung  before  her. 
She  had  realized  her  doom  for  the  first  time  in  its  entii^ety  on 
the  Mdsummer-day  preceding  that  we  are  now  describing. 
On  that  day  she  had  walked  over  to  Shanmoor  in  a  fever  of 
dumb  rage  and  despair,  to  claim  from  her  betrayer  the  fulfill- 
ment of  his  promise  of  marriage.  He  had  laughed  at  her,  and 
she  had  fled  home  in  the  warm  rainy  dusk,  a  prey  to  all  those 
torturing  terrors  which  only  a  woman  in  extremis  can  know. 
And  on  her  way  back  she  had  seen  the  ghost  or  "bogle"  of 
Deep  Crag ;  the  ghost  had  spoken  to  her,  and  she  had  reached 
home  more  dead  than  alive,  having  received  what  she  at  once 
recognized  as  her  death  sentence. 

What  had  she  seen?  An  effect  of  moouHghted  mist— a  shep- 
herd boy  bent  on  a  practical  joke— a  gleam  of  white  waterfall 
among  the  darkening  rocks?  What  had  she  heai^d?  The  even- 
ing greeting  of  a  passer-by,  wafted  down  to  her  fi-om  some  higher 
path  along  the  fell?  distant  voices  in  the  farm  inclosm-es  beneath 
her  feet  ?  or  simply  the  eerie  sounds  of  the  mountain,  those  weird 
earth- whispers  ^hich  haunt  the  lonely  places  of  nature?  Who 
can  tell?  Nerves  and  brain  were  strained  to  their  uttermost.  The 
legend  ©f  the  ghost— of  the  ^\  who  had  thrown  her  baby  and 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


159 


herself  into  the  tarn  under  the  frowning  precipitous  cliffs  which 
marked  the  western  end  of  High  Fell,  and  who  had  since  then 
walked  the  lonely  road  to  Shanmoor  every  Midsummer-night, 
with  her  moaning  child  upon  her  arm— had  flashed  into  Mary's 
mind  as  she  left  the  white- walled  village  of  Shanmoor  behind 
her,  and  climbed  upward  with  her  shame  and  her  secret  into  the 
mists.  To  see  the  bogle  was  merely  distressing  and  untow^ard ;  to 
be  spoken  to  by  the  phantom  voice  was  death.  No  one  so  ad- 
dressed  could  hope  to  survive  the  following  Midsummer-day. 
Eevolving  these  things  in  her  mind,  along  with  tbe  terrible  de- 
tails of  her  own  story,  the  exhausted  girl  had  seen  her  vision, 
and,  as  she  firmly  believed,  incurred  her  doom. 

A  week  later  she  had  disappeared  from  home  and  from  the 
neighborhood.  The  darkest  stories  were  afloat.  She  had  taken 
some  money  with  her,  and  all  trace  of  her  was  lost.  The  father 
had  a  period  of  gloomy  taciturnity,  during  which  his  principal 
relief  was  got  out  of  jeering  and  girding  at  his  eld^r  brother ;  the 
noodle's  eyes  wandered  and  ghttered  more ;  his  shrunken  frame 
seemed  more  shrunken  as  he  sat  dangling  his  spindle  legs  from 
the  shaft  of  the  carrier's  cart ;  his  absence  of  mind  was  for  a 
time  more  marked,  and  excused  with  less  buoyancy  and  in- 
ventiveness than  usual.  But  otherwise  all  went  on  as  before. 
John  Backhouse  took  no  step,  and  for  nine  months  nothing  was 
heard  of  his  daughter. 

At  last  one  cheerless  March  afternoon,  Jim,  coming  back  first 
from  the  Wednesday  round  with  the  cart,  entered  the  farm 
kitchen,  while  John  Backhouse  was  still  wrangling  at  one  of  the 
other  farm-houses  of  the  hamlet  about  some  disputed  payment. 
The  old  man  came  in  cold  and  weary,  and  the  sight  of  the  half- 
tended  kitchen  and  neglected  fire — they  paid  a  neighbor  to  do 
the  housework,  as  far  as  the  care  of  her  own  seven  children  would 
let  her— suddenly  revived  in  his  slippery  mind  the  memory  of 
his  niece,  who,  with  all  her  faults,  had  had  the  makings  of  a 
housewife,  and  for  whom,  in  spite  of  her  flouts  and  jeers,  he  had 
always  cherished  a  secret  admiration.  As  he  came  in  he  noticed 
that  the  door  to  the  left  hand,  leading  into  yhat  Westmoreland 
folk  call  the  "hoMse"  or  sitting-room  of  the  farm,  was  open. 
The  room  had  hardly  been  used  since  Mary's  flight,  and  the  few 
pieces  of  black  oak  and  shining  mahogany  which  adorned  it  had 
long  ago  fallen  from  their  pristine  polish.  The  geraniums  and 
fuchsias  with  which  she  had  filled  the  windo^\  all  the  summer  be- 
had  died  into  dry,  blac^gped  stalks ;  and  the  dust  lay  heavy 


i60 


ROBEBT  ELSMERE. 


on  the  room,  in  spite  of  the  well-meant  but  wholly  ineffective 
efforts  of  the  char- woman  nexfc  door.  The  two  old  men  had 
avoided  the  place  for  months  past  by  common  consent,  and  the 
door  into  it  wa,s  hardly  ever  opened. 

Now,  however,  it  stood  ajar,  and  old  Jim  going  up  to  shut  it 
and  looking  in,  was  struck  dumb  with  astonishment.  For  there 
Dn  a  wooden  rocking-chair,  which  had  been  her  mother's  favor- 
ite seat,  sat  Mary  Backhouse,  her  feet  on  the  curved  brass  fen- 
der, her  eyes  staring  into  the  parlor  grate.  Her  clothes,  her 
face,  her  attitude  of  cowering  chill  and  mortal  fatigue,  produced 
an  impression  v/hich  struck  through  the  old  man's  dull  senses, 
and  made  him  tremble  so  that  his  hand  di'opped  from  the  handle 
of  the  door.  The  slight  sound  roused  Mary,  and  she  turned 
toward  him.  She  said  nothing  for  a  few  seconds,  her  hollow 
black  eyes  fixed  upon  him ;  then  with  a  ghastly  smile,  and  a 
voice  so  hoarse  as  to  be  scarcely  audible : 

Weel,  aaVe  coom  back.    Ye'd  may  be  not  expect  me?" 

There  was  a  sound  behind  on  the  cobbles  outside  kitchen 
door. 

"Yur  feyther!"  cried  Jim  between  his  teeth.  "G-ang  up- 
stairs wi'  ye."  And  he  pointed  to  a  door  in  the  wall  concealing 
a  staircase  to  the  upper  story. 

She  sprung  up,  looked  at  the  door  and  at  him  irresolutely, 
and  then  stayed  where  she  vv^as,  gaunt,  pale,  fever-eyed,  the 
wreck  and  ghost  of  her  old  self. 

The  steps  neared.  There  was  a  rough  voice  in  the  kitchen, 
a  surprised  exclamation,  and  her  father  had  pushed  passed  his 
brother  into  the  room. 

John  Backhouse  no  sooner  saw  his  daughter  than  his  dull, 
weather-beaten  face  flamed  into  violence.  With  an  oath  he 
raised  the  heavy  whip  he  held  in  his  hand,  and  flung  himself 
toward  her. 

*'Naw,  ye'll  not  du'at!"  cried  Jim,  throwing  himself  with  all 
his  feeble  strength  on  to  his  brother's  arm.  John  swore  and 
struggled,  but  the  old  man  stuck  like  a  limpet. 

"You  let  'un  aleann,"  said  Mary,  drawing  her tatteted  shawl 
over  her  breaat.  ''If  he  aims  to  kill  me,  aa'll  not  say  naa. 
But  he  needn't  moider  hisself!  There's  them  abuve  as  ha' 
taken  care  o' that!" 

She  sunk  again  into  her  chair,  as  though  her  limbs  could  not 
support  her,  and  her  eyes  closed  in  the  utter  indifference  of  a 
fatigue  which  had  made  even  fe^^  impossible. 


ROBEET  ELSMKRE. 


161 


The  father's  arm  dropped;  he  stood  there  sullenly  looking  at 
her.  Jim,  thinking  she  had  fainted,  went  up  to  her,  took  a  glass 
of  water  out  of  which  she  had  already  been  drinking  from  the 
mahogany  table,  and  held  it  to  her  lips.  She  drank  a  little, 
and  then  with  a  desperate  effort  raised  herself,  and  clutching 
the  arm  of  the  chair,  faced  her  father. 

Ye'll  not  hev  to  wait  lang.  Doan't  ye  fash  yerseF.  May- 
be it  ull  comfort  ye  to  knaw  sumat !  Lasst  Midsummer-day 
aa  was  on  t'  Shanmoor  road,  i' t'  gloaming.  An'  aa  8aw  theer 
t'  bogle— thee  knaws,  t'  bogle  o'  Bleacliff  Tarn ;  an'  she  turned 
hersel',  an'  she  spoak  to  me !" 

She  uttered  the  last  words  with  a  grim  emphasis,  dwelling  on 
each,  the  whole  life  of  the  wasted  face  concentrated  in  the  ter- 
rible black  eyes,  which  gazed  past  the  two  figures  within  their 
immediate  range  into  a  vacancy  peopled  with  horror.  5,*hen  a 
film  came  over  them,  the  grip  relaxed,  and  she  fell  back  '^itha 
lurch  of  the  rocking-chair  in  a  dead  swoon.  i  * 

With  the  help  of  the  neighbor  from  next  door,  Jim  got  her 
upstairs  into  the  room  that  had  been  hers.  She  awok«>  from 
her  swoon  only  to  fall  into  the  torpid  sleep  of  exhaustion.  >?v^hich 
lasted  for  twelve  hours.  ^ 

Keep  her  oot  o'  ma  way,"  said  the  father  with  an  cnth  to 
Jim,    or  aa'll  not  answer  nayther  for  her  nor  me !" 

She  needed  no  telling.  She  soon  crept  down-stairs  again,  and 
went  to  the  task  of  house-cleaning.  The  two  men  lived  in  the 
kitchen  as  before;  v/hen  they  were  at  home  she  ate  and  sat  in 
the  parlor  alone.  Jim  watched  her  as  far  as  his  dull  brain 
was  capable  of  watching,  and  he  dimly  understood  tbat  she 
was  dying.  Both  men,  indeed,  felt  a  sort  of  superstitious  awe 
of  her,  she  was  so  changed,  so  unearthly.  As  for  the  story  of 
the  ghost,  the  old  popular  superstitions  are  almost  dead  in  the 
Cumbrian  mountains,  and  the  shrewd  north-country  peasant 
is  in  many  places  quite  as  scornfully  ready  to  sacrifice  his 
ghosts  to  the  Time  Spirit  as  any  ''bold,  bad "  haunter  of  scien- 
tific associations  could  wish  him  to  be.  But  in  a  few  of  the 
remoter  valleys  they  still  linger,  though  beneath  the  surface. 
Either  of  the  Backhouse's,  or  Mary  in  her  days  of  health,  would 
have  suffered  many  things  rather  than  allow  a  stranger  to 
suppose  they  placed  the  smallest  credence  in  the  story  of 
Bleacliff  Tarn.  But,  all  the  same,  the  story  which  each  had 
heard  in  childhood,  on  stormy  nights  perhaps,  when  the  moun- 
tain-side was  awful  with  the  sounds  of  tempest,  had  gro^n  up 


162 


ROBERT  ELSMERE, 


with  them,  had  entered  deep  into  the  tissue  of  consciousness. 
In  Mary's  imagination  the  ideas  and  images  connected  with  it 
had  now,  under  the  stimulus  of  circumstance,  become  instinct 
with  a  hving,  pursuing  terror.  But  they  were  present,  though 
in  a  duller,  blunter  state,  m  the  minds  of  her  father  and  uncle; 
and  as  the  weeks  passed  on,  and  the  days  lengthened  toward 
midsummer,  a  sort  of  brooding  horror  seemed  to  settle  on  the 
louse. 

Mary  grew  weaker  and  weaker;  her  cough  kept  Jim  awake 
at  night;  once  or  twice  when  he  went  to  help  her  with  a  piece 
of  work  which  nob  even  her  extraordinary  will  could  carry  her 
through,  her  hand  burned  him  like  a  hot  cinder.  But  she  kept 
all  other  wom.en  out  of  the  house  by. her  mad,  strange  ways; 
and  if  her  uncle  showed  any  consciousness  of  her  state,  she 
turned  upon  him  with  her  old  temper,  which  had  lost  all  its 
former  stormy  grace,  and  had  become  ghastly  by  the  contrast 
it  brought  out  between  the  tempestuous,  vindictive  soul  and 
the  shaken  weakness  of  frame. 

A  doctor  would  have  discovered  at  once  that  what  was 
wrong  with  her  was  phthisis,  complicated  with  insanity ;  and 
the  insanity,  -instead  of  taking  the  hopeful  optimistic  tinge 
which  is  characteristic  of  the  insanity  of  consumption,  had 
rather  assumed  the  color  of  the  events  from  wliich  the  disease 
itself  had  started.  Cold,  exposure,  long-continued  agony  of 
mind  and  body— the  madness  intertwined  with  an  illness  which 
had  such  roots  as  these  was  naturally  a  madness  of  despair. 
One  of  its  principal  signs  was  the  fixed  idea  as  to  Midsimimer- 
day.  It  never  occurred  to  her  as  possible  that  her  life  should 
be  prolonged  beyond  that  limit.  Every  night,  as  she  dragged 
herself  up  the  steep  little  staircase  to  her  room,  she  checked  of! 
the  day  which  had  just  passed  from  the  days  she  had  still  to 
live.  She  had  made  all  her  arrangements ;  she  had  even  sewed 
with  her  own  hands,  and  that  without  any  sense  of  special 
horror,  but  rather  in  the  provident  peasant  way,  the  dress  in 
which  she  was  to  be  carried  to  her  grave. 

At  last  one  day,  her  father,  coming  unexpectedly  into  the 
yard,  saw  her  carrying  a  heavy  pail  of  water  from  the  pump. 
Something  stirred  wdthin  him,  and  he  went  up  to  her  and  forci- 
bly took  it  from  her.  Their  looks  met,  and  her  poor  mad  eyes 
gazed  intensely  into  his.  As  he  moved  forward  toward  the  house 
she  crept  after  him,  passing  him  into  the  parlor,  where  she  sunk 
down  breathless  on  the  settle  wh^re  she  had  been  sleeping  toi 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


163 


the  last  few  nights,  rather  than  face  climbing  the  stairs.  For 
the  first  time  he  followed  her,  watching  her  gasping  struggle  for 
breath,  in  spite  of  her  impatient  motion  to  him  to  go.  After  a 
few  seconds  he  left  her,  took  his  hat,  went  out,  saddled  his 
horse,  and  rode  off  to  Whinborough.  He  got  Dr.  Baker  to 
promise  to  come  over  on  the  morrow,  and  on  his  way  back  he 
called  and  requested  to  see  Catherine  Leybum.  He  stammer- 
ingly  asked  her  to  come  and  visit  his  daughter,  who  was  ill  and 
lonesome,  and  when  she  consented  gladly  he  went  on  his  way 
feeling  a  load  off  his  mind.  What  he  had  just  done  had  been 
due  to  an  undefined,  but  still  vehement  prompting  of  conscience. 
It  did  not  make  it  any  the  less  probable  that  the  girl  would  die 
on  or  before  Midsummer-day ;  but,  supposing  her  story  were 
true,  it  absolved  him  from  any  charge  of  assistance  to  the  de- 
signs of  those  grisly  powers  in  whose  clutch  she  was. 

When  the  doctor  came  next  morning  a  change  for  the  worse 
had  taken  place,  and  she  was  too  feeble  actively  to  resent  his 
appearance.  She  lay  there  on  the  settle,  every  now  and  then 
making  superhuman  efforts  to  get  up,  which  generally  ended 
in  a  swoon.  She  refused  to  take  any  medicine,  she  would 
hardly  take  any  food,  and  to  the  doctor's  questions  she  returned 
no  answer  whatever.  In  the  same  way,  when  Catherine  came, 
she  would  be  absolutely  silent,  looking  at  her  with  glittering, 
feverish  eyes,  but  taking  no  notice  at  aU,  whether  she  read  or 
talked,  or  simply  sat  quietly  beside  her. 

After  the  silent  period,  as  the  days  went  on,  and  Midsummer- 
day  drew  nearer,  there  supervened  a  period  of  intermittent  de- 
lirium. In  the  evenings,  especially  when  her  temperature  rose, 
she  became  talkative  and  incoherent,  and  Catherine  would 
sometimes  tremble  as  she  caught  the  sentences  which,  little  by 
Httle,  built  up  the  girl's  hidden  tragedy  before  her  eyes.  Lon- 
don streets,  London  lights,  London  darkness,  the  agony  of  an 
endless  wandering,  tie  little,  clinging,  puny  life,  which  could 
never  be  stilled  or  satisfied,  biting  cold,  intolerable  pain,  the 
cheerless  work-house  order,  and,  finally,  the  arms  without  a 
burden,  the  breast  without  a  child— these  were  the  sharp  frag- 
ments of  experience,  so  common,  so  terrible  to  the  end  of  time, 
which  rose  on  the  troubled  surface  of  Mary  Backhouse's  de- 
lirium, and  smote  the  tender  heart  of  the  listener. 

Then  in  the  mornings  she  would  lie  suspicious  and  silent, 
watching  Catherine's  face  with  the  long  gaze  of  exhaustion,  as 
though  trying  to  find  out  from  it  whether  her  secret  had  escaped 


164 


BOBERT  ELSMERE. 


her.  The  doctor,  who  had  gathered  the  story  of  the  bogle 
from  Catherine,  to  whom  Jim  had  told  it,  briefly  and  reluctant- 
ly, and  with  an  absolute  reservation  of  his  own  views  on  the 
matter,  recommended  that  if  possible  they  should  try  and  de- 
ceive her  as  to  the  date  of  the  day  and  month.  Mere  nervous 
excitement  might,  he  thought,  be  enough  to  kill  her  when  the 
actual  day  and  hour  came  round.  But  all  their  attempts  were 
useless.  Nothing  distracted  the  intense  sleepless  attention  with 
which  the  darkened  mind  kept  always  in  view  that  one  absorb- 
ing expectation.  Words  fell  from  her  at  night  which  seemed 
to  show  that  she  expected  a  smnmons— a  voice  along  the  fell, 
calling  her  spirit  into  the  dark.  And  then  would  come  the 
shriek,  the  struggle  to  get  loose,  the  choked  waMng,  the  wan- 
dering, horror-stricken  eyes,  subsiding  by  degrees  into  the  old 
silent  watch. 

On  the  morning  of  the  23d,  when  Eobert,  sitting  at  his  work, 
was  looking  at  Burwood  through  the  window  in  the  flattering 
belief  that  Catherine  was  the  captive  of  the  weather,  she  had 
spent  an  hour  or  more  with  Mary  Backhouse,  and  the  austerft 
influences  of  the  visit  had  perhaps  had  more  share  than  she 
knew  in  determining  her  own  mood  that  day.  The  world 
seemed  such  dross,  the  pretenses  of  personal  happiness  so  hol- 
low and  delusive,  after  such  a  sight  I  The  girl  lay  dying  fast, 
with  a  look  of  extraordinary  attentiveness  in  her  face,  hearing 
every  noise,  every  footfall,  and,  as  it  seemed  to  Catherine,  in  a 
mood  of  inward  joy.  She  took,  moreover,  some  notice  of  her 
visitor.  As  a  rough  tomboy  of  fourteen,  she  had  shown  Cath- 
eiine,  who  had  taught  her  in  the  school  sometimes,  and  had 
especially  won  her  regard  on  one  occasion  by  a  present  of  some 
article  of  dress,  a  good  many  uncouth  signs  of  affection.  On 
the  morning  in  question  Catherine  fancied  she  saw  something 
of  the  old  childish  expression  once  or  twice.  At  any  rate, 
there  was  no  doubt  her  presence  was  sootl&g,  as  she  read  in 
her  low,  vibrating  voice,  or  sat  silently  stroking  the  emaci- 
ated hand,  raising  it  every  now  and  then  to  her  hps  with  a  rush 
of  that  intense  pitif  ulness  which  was  to  her  the  most  natural  of 
all  moods. 

The  doctor,  whom  she  met  there,  said  that  this  state  of  cahn 
was  very  possibly  only  transitory.  The  night  had  been  passed 
in  a  succession  of  paroxysms,  and  they  were  almost  sure  to  re- 
turn upon  her,  especially  as  he  could  get  her  to  swallow  none 
of  the  sedaliT^e  which  might  have  carried  her  in  unconscious- 


EGBERT  ELSMERE. 


165 


ness  past  the  fatal  moment.  She  would  have  none  of  them ;  he 
thought  that  she  was  determined  to  allow  of  no  encroachments 
on  the  troubled  remnants  of  intelHgence  still  left  to  her;  so  the 
only  thing  to  be  done  was  to  wait  and  see  the  result.  I  will 
come  to-morrow,''  said  Catherine^  briefly;  "for  the  day  cer- 
tainly, longer  if  necessary."  She  had  long  ago  established  her 
claim  so  be  treated  seriously  as  a  nurse,  and  Dr.  Baker  made 
no  objection.  '  *  If  she  lives  so  long, "  he  said,  dubiously.  * '  The 
Backhouses  and  Mrs.  Irwin''  [the  neighbor]  ''shall  be  close  at 
hand.  I  will  come  in  the  afternoon  and  try  to  get  her  to  take 
an  opiate  ;  but  I  can't  give  it  her  by  force,  and  there  is  not  the 
smallest  chance  of  her  consenting  to  it." 

All  through  Catherine's  own  struggle  and  pain  during  these 
two  days  the  image  of  the  dying  girl  had  lain  at  her  heart. .  It 
served  her  as  the  crucifix  serves  the  Eomanist ;  as  she  pressed  it 
into  her  thought,  it  recovered  from  time  to  time  the  failing 
forces  of  the  will.  Need  life  be  empty  because  self  was  left  un- 
satisfied ?  Now,  as  she  neared  the  hamlet,  the  quality  of  her 
nature  reasserted  itself.  The  personal  want  tugging  at  her 
senses,  the  personal  soreness,  the  cry  of  resentful  love,  were 
silenced.  What  place  had  they  in  the  presence  of  this  lonely 
agony  of  death,  this  mystery,  this  opening  beyond  ?  The  old 
heroic  mood  revived  in  her.  Her  step  grew  swifter,  her  car- 
riage more  erect,  and  as  she  entered  the  farm  kitchen  she  felt 
herself  once  more  ready  in  spirit  for  what  lay  before  her. 

From  the  next  room  there  came  a  succession  of  husky,  sibilant 
sounds,  as  though  some  one  were  whispering  hurriedly  and 
continuously. 

After  her  subdued  greeting  she  looked  inquiringly  at  Jim. 

''She's  in  a  taaking  way, "  said  Jim,  who  looked  more  attenu- 
ated and  his  face  more  hke  a  pink  and  white  parchment  than 
ever.  "She's  been  knacking  an'  taaking  a  long  while.  She 
vvoan't  know  ye.  Luk  ye,"  he  continued,  dropping  his  voice  as 
he  opened  the  "house"  door  for  her;  "ef  you  want  ayder  ov 
oos,  you  jest  call. oot— sharp  !  Mrs.  Irwin,  she'll  stay  in  wf  ye 
—she's  not  afeerd  !" 

The  superstitious  excitement  which  the  looks  and  gestures  of 
the  old  man  expressed  ^^ouched  Catherine's  imagination,  and 
she  entered  the  room  with  an  inward  shiver. 

Mary  Backhouse  lay  raised  high  on  her  pillows,  talking  to 
i^^Tstelf  or  to  imaginary  other  persons,  with  eyes  wide  open  but 
recant,  and  senses  conscious  of  nothing  but  the  dream  world 


166 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


in  which  the  mind  was  wandering.  Catherine  sat  softly  down 
beside  her,  unnoticed,  thankful  for  the  chances  of  disease.  Ji 
this  deUrium  lasted  till  the  ghost-hour— the  time  of  twilight, 
that  is  to  say,  which  would  begin  about  half -past  eight,  and  the 
duration  of  which  would  depend  on  the  cloudiness  of  the  even- 
ing—wa^  over,  or,  better  still,  till  midnight  were  passed,  the 
strain  on  the  girl's  agonized  senses  might  be  relieved,  and  death 
come  at  last  in  sotter,  lander  guise. 

''Has  she  been  long  like  this?"  she  asked,  softly,  of  the 
aeighbor  who  sat  quietly  knitting  by  the  evening  light. 

The  woman  looked  up  and  thought. 

''Ay  !"  she  said.    " Aa  came  in  at  tea  time,  an'  she's  been 
maistlv  taakin  ivver  sence  1" 

The'^incoherent  whisperings  and  restless  movements,  which 
obUged  Catherine  constantly  to  replace  the  coverings  over  the 
poor  wasted  and  fevered  body,  went  on  for  some  time.  Cath- 
erine noticed  presently,  with  a  little  thrHl,  that  the  light  was 
beginning  to  change.    The  weather  was  growing  darker  and 
stormier;  the  wind  shook  the  house  in  gusts;  and  the  further 
shoulder  of  High  Fell,  seen  in  distorted  outline  through  the 
casemented  window,  was  almost  hidaen  by  the  traUing  rain 
clouds.    The  mournful  western  light  coming  from  behind  the 
house  struck  the  river  here  and  there;  almost  everything  else 
was  gray  and  dark.    A  mountain  ash,  just  outside  the  window, 
brushed  the  panes  every  now  and  then ;  and  in  the  silence  every 
surrounding  sound— the  rare  movements  in  the  next  room,  the 
voices  of  quarreling  children  round  the  door  of  a  neighboring 
douse,  the  far-off  barking  of  dogs— made  itself  distinctly  audible. 

Suddenly  Catherine,  sunk  in  painful  reverie,  noticed  that  the 
ttiutterings  from  the  bed  had  ceased  for  some  httle  time.  She 
toned  her  chair,  and  was  startled  to  find  those  weird  eyes  fixed 
mth  recognition  on  herself.  There  was  a  curious  malign  in- 
tensity, a  curious  triumph  in  them. 

"  It  must  be— eight  o'clock,"  said  the  gasping  Yoice— ''-eight 
o'clock,''  and  the  tone  became  a  whisper,  as  though  the  idea 
thus  half  involuntarily  revealed  had  been  drawn  jealously  back 
into  the  strongholds  of  consciousness. 

**Mary,"  said  Catherine,  falhng  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed, 
and  taking  one  of  the  restless  hands  forcibly  into  her  own, 
"can't  you  put  this  thought  away  from  you  ?  We  are  not  the 
playthings  of  evil  spirits— we  are  the  children  of  God  !  We  are 
in  His  hands.   No  evil  thing  can  harm  us  against  His  will." 


ROBEET  ELSMERE, 


167 


It  was  the  first  time  for  many  days  she  had  spoken  openly  of 
the  thought  which  was  in  the  mind  of  ail,  and  her  whole  plead- 
ing soul  was  in  her  pale,  beautiful  face.  There  was  no  response 
in  the  sick  girl's  countenance,  and  again  that  look  of  triumph, 
of  sinister  exultation.  They  had  tried  to  cheat  her  into  sleep- 
ing, and  hving,  and  in  spite  of  them,  at  the  supreme  momen-t^ 
every  sense  was  awake  and  expectant.  To  what  was  the  mate- 
rialized peasant  imagination  looking  forward  ?  To  an  actual 
call,  an  actual  foUowing  to  the  free  mountain-side,  the  rush  of 
the  wind,  the  phantom  figure  floating  on  before  her,  bearing 
her  into  the  heart  of  the  storm  ?  Dread  was  gone,  pain  was 
gone;  there  was  only  rapt  excitement  and  fierce  anticipation. 

**Mary,"  said  Catherine  again,  mistaking  her  mood  for  one 
of  tense  defiance  and  despair,  "Mary,  if  I  were  to  go  out  now 
^nd  leave  Mrs.  Irwin  with  you,  and  if  I  were  to  go  up  all  the 
way  to  the  top  of  Shanmoss  and  back  again,  and  if  I  could  tell 
you  there  was  nothing  there,  nothing— if  I  were  to  stay  out  till 
the  dark  has  come— it  will  be  here  in  half  an  hour— and  you 
could  be  quite  sure  when  you  saw  me  again  that  there  was 
nothing  near  you  but  the  dear  old  hills,  and  the  power  of  God, 
could  you  believe  me  and  try  and  rest  and  sleep?" 

Mary  looked  at  her  intently.  If  Catherine  could  have  seen 
clearly  in  the  dim  light  she  would  have  caught  something  of 
the  cunning  of  madness  slipping  into  the  dying  woman's  ex- 
pression. While  she  waited  for  the  answer  there  was  a  noise 
in  the  kitchen  outside,  an  opening  of  the  outer  door,  and  a 
voice.  Catherine's  heart  stood  still.  She  had  to  make  a  super- 
human effort  to  keep  her  attention  fixed  on  Mary. 

"  Go !"  said  the  hoarse  whisper  close  beside  her,  and  the  girl 
lifted  her  wasted  hand,  and  pushed  her  visitor  from  her. 

Go!"  it  repeated  insistently,  with  a  sort  of  wild  beseeching; 
then,  brokenly,  the  gasping  breath  interrupting.  "There's 
naw  fear— naw  fear— fur  the  likes  o'  you!" 

Catherine  rose. 

"I'm  not  afraid,"  she  said,  gently,  but  her  hand  shook  as  she 
pushed  her  chair  back;  "  God  is  everywhere,  Mary." 

She  put  on  her  hat  and  cloak,  said  something  in  Mrs.  Irwin's 
ear,  and  stooped  to  kiss  the  brow  which  to  the  shuddering  sense 
under  her  will  seemed  already  cold  and  moist  with  the  sweats 
of  death.  Mary  watched  her  go;  Mrs.  Irwin,  with  the  air  of 
one  bewildered,  drew  her  chair  nearer  to  the  settle ;  and  tK* 
light  of  the  fire,  shooting  and  dancing  through  the  June  twi- 


168 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


light,  thi-ew  such  fantastic  shadows  over  the  face  on  the  pillow 
that  all  expression  was  lost.  What  was  moving  in  the  crazed 
mind?  Satisfaction,  perhaps,  at  haying  got  rid  of  one  witness, 
one  jailer,  one  of  the  various  antagonistic  forces  surrounding 
her?  She  had  a  dim  frenzied  notion  she  should  have  to  fight 
for  her  liberty  when  the  call  came,  and  she  lay  tense  and  rigid, 
waitmg — the  images  of  insanity  whirhng  through  her  brain  ^ 
while  the  light  slowly,  slowly  waned. 

Catherine  opened  the  door  into  the  kitchen.  The  two  car- 
riers were  standing  there,  and  Robert  Elsmere  also  stood  with 
his  back  to  her,  talking  to  them  in  an  under- tone. 

He  turned  at  the  sound  behind  him,  and  his  start  brought  a 
sudden  flush  to  Catherine's  cheek.  Her  face,  as  the  candle- 
light struck  it  amid  the  shadows  of  the  door  way,  was  like  an 
angelic  vision  to  him— the  heavenly  calm  of  it  just  exquisitely 
broken  by  the  wonder,  the  shock,  of  his  presence. 

*'You  here?"  he  cried,  coming  up  to  her,  and  taking  her 
hand— what  secret  instinct  guided  him?— close  in  both  of  his. 

I  never  dreamt  of  it— so  late.  My  cousin  sent  me  over— she 
wished  for  news." 

She  smiled  involuntarily.  It  seemed  to  her  she  had  expected 
this  in  some  sort  all  along.  But  her  self-possession  was  com- 
plete. 

"The  excited  state  may  be  over  in  a  short  time  now,"  she 
answered  him  in  a  quiet  whisper;  "but  at  present  it  is  at  its 
height.  It  seemed  to  please  her" — and  withdrawing  her  hand 
she  turned  to  John  Backhouse— "  when  I  suggested  that  I 
should  walk  up  to  Shanmoss  and  back.  I  said  I  would  come 
back  to  her  in  half  an  liour  or  so,  when  the  daylight  was  quite 
gone,  and  prove  to  her  there  was  nothing  on  the  path." 

A  hand  caught  her  arm.  It  was  Mrs.  Irwin,  holding  the 
door  close  with  the  other  hand. 

"Miss  Leyburn — Miss  Catherine!  Yur  not  gav/in'  oot — noil 
gawin'  oop  that  path?"  The  woman  was  fond  of  Catherine, 
and  looked  deadly  frightened. 

"Yes,  I  am,  Mrs.  Irwin — but  I  shall  be  back  very  soon 
Don't  leave  her;  go  back."  And  Catherine  motioned  her  back 
with  a  little  peremptory  gesture. 

"Doan't  ye  let  'ur,  sir,"  said  the  woman,  excitedly,  to  Rob- 
ert. "One's  eneuf  aa'm  thinking"  And  she  pointed  with ^ 
meaning  gesture  to  the  room  behind  her. 


# 


BOBERT  ELSMERJ5. 


169 


Robert  looked  at  Catherine,  who  was  moving  toward  the 
outer  door. 

**I11  go  with  her,"  he  said,  hastily,  his  face  lighting  up- 
There  is  nothing  whatever  to  be  afraid  of,  only  don't  leave 
your  patient." 

Catherine  trembled  as  she  heard  the  words,  but  she  made  no 
sign,  and  the  two  men  and  the  woman  watched  their  departure 
with  blank  uneasy  wonderment.  A  second  later  they  were  on 
the  fell-side  climbing  a  rough  stony  path,  which  in  places  waa 
almost  a  water-course,  and  which  wound  up  the  fell  toward  a 
tract  of  level  swampy  moss  or  heath,  beyond  which  lay  the 
descent  to  Shanmoor.  Dayhght  was  almost  gone ;  the  stormy 
yellow  west  was  being  fast  swallowed  up  in  cloud;  below  them 
as  they  climbed  lay  the  dark  group  of  houses  with  a  light 
twinkling  here  and  there.  All  about  them  were  black  mount- 
ain forms;  a  desolate  tempestuous  wind  drove  a  gusty  rain  into 
their  faces ;  a  little  beck  roared  beside  tHem,  and  in  the  dis- 
tance  from  the  black  gulf  of  the  valley  the  swollen  river  thun- 
dered. 

Elsmere  looked  down  on  his  companion  with  an  indescriba- 
ble exultation,  a  passionate  sense  of  possession  which  could 
hardly  restrain  itself.  He  had  come  back  that  morning  with  a 
mind  clearly  made  up.  Catherine  had  been  blind  indeed  when 
she  supposed  that  any  plan  of  his  or  hers  would  have  been  al- 
lowed to  stand  in  the  way  of  that  last  wrestle  with  her,  of 
which  he  had  planned  all  the  methods,  rehearsed  all  the  argu- 
ments. But  when  he  reached  the  vicarage  he  was  greeted  with 
the  news  of  her  absence.  She  was  inaccessible  it  appeared  for 
the  day.  No  matter !  The  vicar  and  he  settled  in  the  fewest 
possible  words  that  he  should  stay  till  Monday,  Mrs.  Thorn- 
burgh  meanwhile  looking  on,  saying  what  civility  demanded, 
and  surprisingly  little  else.  Then  in  the  evening  Mrs.  Thorn- 
burgh  had  asked  of  him  with  a  manner  of  admirable  indiffer- 
ence whether  he  felt  inclined  for  an  evening  walk  to  High 
Ghyll  to  inquire  after  Mary  Backhouse.  The  request  fell  in 
excellently  with  a  lover's  restlessness,  and  Robert  assented  at 
once.  The  vicar  saw  him  go  with  puzzled  brows  and  a  quicb 
look  at  his  wife,  whose  head  was  bent  close  over  her  worsted 
work. 

It  never  occurred  to  Elsmere— or  if  it  did  occur  he  pooh* 
poohed  the  notion— that  he  should  find  Catherine  still  at  hei 
post  far  from  home  on  this  dexk  stormy  evening.   But  in  the 


170  ilOBEM  ELSMERB.  ^ 

glow  of  joy  which  her  presence  had  brought  him  he  was  still 
capable  of  all  sorts  of  delicate  perceptions  and  reasonings.  His 
quick  imagination  carried  him  through  the  scene  from  which 
she  had  just  momentarily  escaped.  He  had  understood  the 
exaltation  of  her  look  and  tone.  If  love  spoke  at  all,  ringed 
with  such  surroundings,  it  must  be  with  its  most  inward  and 
spiritual  voice,  as  those  speak  who  feel  "the  Eternities"  about 
them. 

But  the  darkness  hid  her  from  him  so  well  that  he  had  to  feel 
out  the  situation  for  himself.    He  could  not  trace  it  in  her  face. 

"We  must  go  right  up  to  the  top  of  the  pass,"  she  said  to 
him,  as  he  held  a  gate  open  for  her  which  led  them  into  a  piece 
of  larch  plantation  on  the  mountain-side.  "  The  ghost  is  sup- 
posed to  walk  along  this  bit  of  road  above  the  houses,  till  it 
reaches  the  heath  on  the  top,  and  then  it  turns  toward  Bleacliff 
Tarn,  which  lies  higher  up  to  the  right,  under  High  Fell." 

"  Do  you  imagine  yom'  report  will  have  any  effect  ?" 

"At  any  rate,"  she  said,  sighing,  "it  seemed  to  me  that  it 
might  divert  her  thoughts  a  Uttle  from  the  actual  horror  of  her 
own  summons.  Anything  is  better  than  the  torture  of  that 
one  fixed  idea  as  she  lies  there." 

"What  is  that?"  said  Robert,  startled  a  little  by  some 
ghostly  sounds  in  front  of  them.  The  little  wood  was^  almost 
dark,  and  he  could  see  nothing. 

"  Only  a  horse  trotting  on  in  front  of  us,"  said  Catherine; 
"our  voices  frightened  him,  I  suppose.  We  shall  be  out  on 
the  fell  again  directly." 

And  as  they  quitted  the  trees  a  dark  bulky  form  to  the  left 
suddenly  lifted  a  shadowy  head  from  the  grass,  and  clattered 
down  the  slope. 

A  cluster  of  white-stemmed  birches  just  ahead  of  them 
caught  whatever  light  was  still  left  in  the  atmosphere,  their 
feathery  tops  bending  and  swaying  against  the  sky. 

"  How  easily,  with  mind  attuned,  one  could  people  this  whole 
path  with  ghosts!"  said  Robert.  "Look  at  those  stems,  and 
tkat  line  of  stream  coming  down  to  the  right,  and  listen  to  the 
wind  among  the  fern." 

For  they  were  passing  a  little  gully  deep  in  bracken,  up  which 
the  blast  was  tearing  its  tempestuous  way. 

Catherine  shivered  a  Httle,  and  the  sense  of  physical  ex- 
haustion, which  had  been  banished  like  everything  else — doubt. 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


171 


humiliation,  bitterness— by  the  one  fact  of  his  presence,  came 
back  on  her. 

There  is  something  rather  awful  in  this  dark  and  storm," 
she  said,  and  paused. 

''Would  you  have  faced  it  alone  he  asked,  his  voice  thrill- 
ing her  with  a  hundred  different  meaniogs.  "  I  am  glad  I  pre- 
vented it." 

have  no  fear  of  the  mountains,"  she  said,  trembling.  ''I 
know  them,  and  they  me." 

But  you  are  tired— your  voice  is  tired— and  the  walk  might 
have  been  more  of  an  effort  than  you  thought  it.  Do  you 
never  think  of  yourself  ?" 

''Oh,  dear,  yes,"  said  Catherine,  trying  to  smile,  and  could 
find  nothing  else  to  say.  They  walked  on  a  few  moments  in 
silence,  splashes  of  rain  breaking  in  their  faces.  Eobert's  in- 
ward excitement  was  growing  fast.  Suddenly  Catherine's 
pulse  stood  still.  She  felt  her  hand  lifted,  drawn  within  his 
arm,  covered  close  with  his  warm  trembling  clasp. 

''  Catherine,  let  it  stay  there.  Listen  one  moment.  You 
gave  me  a  hard  lesson  yesterday,  too  hard— 1  can  not  learn  it 
—I  am  bold— I  claim  you.  Be  my  wife.  Help  me  through 
this  difficult  world.  I  have  loved  you  from  the  first  moment. 
Come  to  me.   Be  kind  to  me." 

She  could  hardly  see  his  face,  but  she  could  feel  the  passion 
in  his  voice  and  touch.  Her  cheek  seemed  to  droop  against 
his  arm.   He  felt  her  tottering. 

''Let  me  sit  down,"  she  said  ;  and  after  one  moment  of 
dizzy  silence  he  guided  her  to  a  rock,  sinking  down  himself 
beside  her,  longing,  but  not  daring,  to  shelter  her  under  his 
broad  Inverness  cloak  against  the  storm. 

told  you,"  she  said,  almost  whispering,  'Hhat  I  was 
bound,  tied  to  others.  " 

"  I  do  not  admit  your  plea,"  he  said,  passionately ;  ''no,  not 
for  a  moment.  For  two  days  have  I  been  tramping  over  the 
mountains  thinking  it  out  for  yourself  and  me.  Catherine, 
your  mother  has  no  son— she  should  find  one  in  me.  I  have 
no  sisters— give  me  yours.  I  will  cherish  them  as  any  brothet 
could.  Come  and  enrich  my  life;  you  shall  still  fill  and  sheltei 
theirs.  I  dare  not  think  what  my  future  might  be  without 
you  to  guide,  to  inspire,  to  bless— dare  not,  lest  with  a  word 
Jrou  should  plunge  me  into  an  outer  darkness  I  can  not  face." 
He  caught  her  unresisting  h§iid,  and  raised  it  to  his  lips. 


172 


EGBERT  ELSMERE. 


*^Is  there  no  sacredness, "  he  said,  brokenly.  *'in  the  fate 
that  has  brought  us  together— out  of  all  the  world— here  in 
this  lonely  valley  ?  Come  to  me,  Catherine.  You  shall  never 
fail  the  old  ties,  I  promise  you ;  and  new  hands  shall  cling  to 
you — new  voices  shall  call  you  blessed." 

Catherine  could  hardly  breathe.  Every  word  had  been  like 
balm  upon  a  wound — like  a  ray  of  intense  light  in  the  gloom 
about  them.  Oh,  v/here  was  this  softness  bearing  her— this 
emptiness  of  all  will,  of  all  individual  power  ?  She  hid  her 
eyes  with  her  other  hand,  strugghng  to  recall  that  far  away 
moment  in  Marrisdale.  But  the  mind  refused  to  work.  Con* 
sciousness  seemed  to  retain  nothing  but  the  warm  grasp  of  his 
hand— the  tones  of  his  voice. 

He  saw  her  struggle,  and  pressed  on  remorselessly. 
Speak  to  me — say  one  little  kind  word.    Oh,  you  can  not 
send  me  away  miserable  and  empty  !" 

She  turned  to  him,  and  laid  her  trembling  free  hand  on  his 
arm.    He  clasped  them  both  with  rapture. 
Give  me  a  little  time." 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  and  it  almost  seemed  to  her  that  he  was 
smiling;  "  time  for  you  to  escape  me  again,  my  wild  mountain 
bird ;  timQ  for  you  to  think  yourself  and  me  into  all  sorts  of 
moral  mists  !  No,  you  shall  not  have  it.  Here,  alone  with 
God  and  the  dark — bless  me  or  undo  me.  Send  me  out  to 
the  work  of  life  maimed  and  sorrowful,  or  send  me  out  your 
knight,  your  possession,  pledged—" 

But  his  voice  failed  him.  What  a  note  of  youth,  of  imagina- 
tion, of  impulsive  eagerness  there  was  through  it  all.  The 
more  slowly  moving  inarticulate  nature  was  swept  away  by  it. 
There  was  but  one  object  clear  to  her  in  the  whole  world  of 
thought  or  sense,  everything  else  had  sunk  out  of  sight- 
drowned  in  a  luminous  mist. 

He  rose  and  stood  before  her  as  he  delivered  his  ultimatum, 
his  tall  form  drawn  up  to  its  full  height.  In  the  east,  across 
the  valley,  above  the  further  buttress  of  High  Fell,  there  was 
a  clearer  strip  of  sky,  visible  for  a  moment  among  the  moving 
storm-clouds,  and  a  dim  haloed  moon  shone  out  in  it.  Far 
away  a  white-walled  cottage  glimmered  against  the  fell;  the 
pools  at  their  feet  shone  in  the  weird  passing  light. 

She  lifted  her  head,  and  looked  at  him,  still  irresolute. 
Then  she^  too,  rose,  and  helplessly,  like  some  one  impelled  W 


ROBEET  ELSMEBE. 


a  will  not  her  own,  she  silently  held  out  to  him  two  white 
trembling  hands. 
' '  Catherine— my  angel— my  wife !" 

There  was  something  in  the  pale  virginal  grace  of  look  and 
form  which  kept  his  young  passion  in  awe.  But  he  bent  his 
head  again  over  those  yielded  hands,  kissing  them  TOth  dizzy, 
unspeakable  joy. 

About  twenty  minutes  later  Catherine  and  Eobert,  having 
hurried  back  with  all  speed  from  the  top  of  Shanmoss,  reached 
the  farm-house  door.  She  knocked.  No  one  answered.  She 
tried  the  lock;  it  yielded,  and  they  entered.  No  one  in  the 
kitchen.    She  looked  disturbed  and  conscience-stricken. 

Oh  !"  she  cried  to  him,  under  her  breath;  have  we  been 
too  long  ?"  And  hurrying  into  the  inner  room  she  left  him 
waiting. 

Inside  was  a  mournful  sight.  The  two  men  and  Mrs.  Irwin 
stood  close  round  the  settle,  but  as  she  came  nearer,  Catherine 
saw  Mary  Backhouse  lying  panting  on  her  pillows,  her  breath 
coming  in  loud  gasps,  her  dress  and  all  the  coverings  of  the  bed 
showing  signs  of  disorder  and  confusion,  her  black  hair  tossed 
about  her. 

''It's bin  awfu'  work  sence  you  left,  miss,"  whispered  Mrs. 
Irwin  to  Catherine,  excitedly,  as  she  joined  them.  'vShe 
thowt  she  heerd  soombody  fleytin'  and  caHin'-it  was  t'  wind 
came  skirlin'  round  t'  place,  an'  she  aw'  but  thrown  hirsel'  oot 
o' t'  bed,  an'  aa  shooted  for  Jim,  and  they  came,  and  they  and 
I— it's  bin  as  much  as  we  could  a'  du  to  hod  'er." 

' '  Luke !   Steady  1"  exclaimed  Jim.    ' '  She'U  try  it  again . " 

For  the  hands  were  moving  restlessly  from  side  to  side,  and 
the  face  was  working  again.  There  was  one  more  desperate 
effort  to  rise,  which  the  two  men  checked-gently  enough,  but 
effectually— and  then  the  exhaustion  seemed  complete.  The  lids 
feU,  and  the  struggle  for  breath  was  pitiful. 

Catherine  fiew  for  some  drugs  which  the  doctor  had  left,  and 
shown  her  how  to  use.  After  some  twenty  minutes  they  seemed 
to  give  relief,  and  the  great  haunted  eyes  opened  once  more. 

Catherine  held  barley-water  to  the  parched  lips,  and  Mary 
drank  mechanically,  her  gaze  still  intently  fixed  on  her  nurse. 
When  Catherine  put  down  the  glass  the  eyes  followed  her  with 
a  question  which  the  lips  had  no  power  to  frame. 

^ '  Leave  her  now  a  little, "  said  Catherine  to  the  others.  ' '  The 


174 


ROBEBT  ELSMERE. 


fewer  people  and  fche  more  air  the  better.  And  please  let  the 
door  be  open;  the  room  is  too  hot."^ 

They  went  out  silently,  and  Catherine  sunk  down  beside  the 
bed.  Her  heart  went  out  in  unspeakable  longing  toward  the 
poor  human  wi-eck  before  her.  For  her  there  was  no  morrow 
possible,  no  dawn  of  other  and  softer  skies.  All  was  over;  life 
was  lived,  and  all  its  heavenly  capabilities  missed  forever. 
Catherine  felt  her  own  joy  hurt  her,  and  her  tears  fell  fast. 

"  Mary,"  she  said,  laying  her  face  close  beside  the  chill  face 
on  the  pillow,  ''Mary,  I  went  out;  I  cHmbedall  the  path  as  far 
as  Shanmoss.  There  was  nothing  evil  there.  Oh,  I  must  tell 
you !  Can  I  make  you  understand?  I  want  you  to  feel  that  it 
is  only  Grod  and  love  that  are  real.  Ob,  think  of  them !  He 
would  not  let  you  be  hurt  and  terrified  in  your  pain,  poor  Mary. 
He  loves  you.  He  is  waiting  to  comfort  you— to  set  you  free 
from  pain  forever;  and  he  has  sent  you  a  sign  by  me."  .  . 
She  lifted  her  head  from  the  pillow,  trembhng  and  hesitating. 
Still  that  feverish,  questioning  gaze  on  the  face  beneath  her,  as 
it  lay  in  deep  shadow  cast  by  a  light  on  the  window-sill  some 
paces  away. 

''You  sent  me  out,  Mary,  to  search  for  something,  the  thought 
of  which  has  been  tormenting  and  torturing  you.  You  thought 
God  would  let  a  dark,  lost  spirit  trouble  you  and  take  you  away 
from  Him— you,  His  child,  whom  He  made  and  whom  He  loves ! 
And  listen !  While  you  thought  you  were  sending  me  out  to 
face  the  evil  thing,  you  were  really  my  kind  angel— God's  mes- 
senger—sending me  to  meet  the  joy  of  my  w-hole  life!  There 
was  some  one  waiting  here  just  now,"  she  went  on,  hurriedly, 
breathing  her  sobbing  words  into  Mary's  ear.  "Some  one  who 
has  loved  me,  and  whom  I  love.  But  I  had  made  him  sad,  and 
myself;  then  when  you  sent  me  out  he  came,  too;  we  walked 
up  that  path,  you  remember,  beyond  the  larch-wood,  up  to  the 
top,  where  the  stream  goes  under  the  road.  And  there  he  spoke 
to  me,  and  I  couldn't  help  it  any  more.  And  I  promised  to  love 
him  and  be  his  wife.  And  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you,  Mary,  it 
would  never  have  happened.  God  had  put  it  into  your  hand, 
this  joy,  and  I  bless  you  for  it!  Oh,  and  Mary— Mary— it  is 
only  for  a  little  while  this  life  of  ours !  Nothing  matters— not 
our  worst  sin  and  sorrow— but  God,  and  our  love  to  Him.  I 
shall  meet  you  some  day— I  pray  I  may— in  His  sight  and  all 
will  be  well,  the  pain  all  forgotten— all  I" 

She  raised  herself  again  and  looked  down  with  yearning,  pas- 


KOBEBT  ELSMERB.  175 

sioDate  pity  on  the  shadowed  form.  Oh,  blessed  answer  of  heart 
to  heart  I  There  were  tears  forming  under  the  heavy  hds,  the 
corners  of  the  Hps  was  relaxed  and  soft.  Slowly  the  feeble  hand 
sought  her  own.    She  waited  in  an  intense,  expectant  silence. 

There  was  a  faint  breathing  from  the  lips;  she  stooped  and 
caught  it. 

"  Kiss  me!"  said  the  whisper;  and  she  laid  her  soft  fresh  hps 
to  the  parched  mouth  of  the  dying.  When  she  Hfted  her  head 
again  Mary  still  held  her  hand;  Catherine  softly  stretched  out 
hers  for  the  opiate  Dr.  Baker  had  left;  it  was  swallowed  without 
resistance,  and  a  quiet  to  w^hich  the  invahd  had  been  a  stranger 
for  days  stole  httle  by  little  over  the  wasted  frame.  The  grasp 
of  the  fingers  relaxed,  the  labored  breath  came  more  gently,  and 
in  a  few  more  minutes  she  slept.  Twilight  was  long  over.  The 
ghost-hour  was  passed,  and  the  moon  outside  was  slowly  gain- 
ing a  wider  empire  in  the  clearing  heavens. 

It  was  a  little  after  ten  o'clock  whenEose  drew  aside  the  cui 
tain  at  Burwood  and  looked  out. 

' '  There  is  the  lantern, "  she  said  to  Agnes,  ' '  just  by  the  vicar- 
age.    How  the  night  has  cleared !" 

She  turned  back  to  her  book.  Agnes  was  writing  letters. 
Mrs.  Leyburn  was  sitting  by  the  bit  of  fire  that  was  generally 
lighted  for  her  benefit  in  the  evenings,  her  white  shawl  drop- 
ping gracefully  about  her,  a  copy  of  the  "  Cornhill"  on  her 
lap.  But  she  was  not  reading,  she  was  meditating,  and  the  girls 
thought  her  out  of  spirits.    The  hall  door  opened. 

"  There  is  some  one  with  Catherine  1"  cried  Eose,  starting  up. 
A.gnes  suspended  her  letter. 

''Perhaps  the  vicar,"  said  Mrs  Leyburn,  with  a  little  sigh. 

A  hand  turned  the  drawing-room  door,  and  in  the  door-way 
stood  Elsmere.  Eose  caught  a  gray  dress  disappearing  up  the 
little  stairs  behind  him. 

Elsmere's  look  was  enough  for  the  two  girls.  They  under- 
stood in  an  instant.  Eose  flushed  all  over.  The  first  contact 
with  love  is  intoxicating  to  any  girl  of  eighteen,  even  though 
the  romance  be  not  hers.    But  Mrs.  Leyburn  sat  bewildered. 

Elsmere  went  up  to  her,  stooped  and  took  her  hand. 
Will  you  give  her  to  me,  Mrs.  Leyburn?"  he  said,  his  boy- 
ish looks  aglow,  his  voice  unsteady.      Will  you  let  me  be  a 
son  to  you?" 


176 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


Mrs.  Leyburn  rose.  He  still  held  her  hand.  She  looked  .\ 
up  at  him  helplessly.  .  , 

"Oh,  Mr.  Elsmere,  where  is  Catherine?'' 

' '  I  brought  her  home, "  he  said  gently.  ' '  She  is  mine,  if  you  | 
wiU  it.    Give  her  to  me  again !"  ] 

Mrs.  Leyburn's  face  worked  pitifull3^    The  rectory  and  the  < 
wedding-dress,   which  had  lingered  so  regretfully  in  her  »| 
thoughts  since  her  last  sight  of  Catherine,  sunk  out  of  them  al-  < 
together.  ^ 
She  has  been  everything  in  the  world  to  us,  Mr.  Elsmere." 

''I  know  she  has,"  he  said,  simply.  ''She  shall  be  every- 
thing in  the  world  to  you  still.  I  have  had  hard  work  to  per- 
suade her.  There  vvdll  be  no  chance  for  me  if  you  don't  help 
me." 

Another  breathless  pause.  Then  Mrs.  Leyburn  timidly  drew 
him  to  her,  and  he  stooped  his  tall  head  and  kissed  her  like  a 
son. 

"Oh,  I  must  go  to  Catherine!"  she  said,  hurrying  away,  her 
pretty  withered  cheeks  wet  with  tears.  ' 

Then  the  girls  threw  themselves  on  Elsmere.  The  talk  was 
all  animation  and  excitement  for  the  moment,  not  a  tragic 
touch  in  it.  It  was  as  well  perhaps  that  Catherine  was  not 
there  to  hear. 

"  I  give  you  fair  warning,"  said  Eose,  as  she  bade  him  good- 
night, "  that  I  don't  know  how  to  behave  to  a  brother.  And 
I  am  equally  sure  that  Mrs.  Thomburgh  doesn't  know  how  to 
behave  to  a  fiance. " 

Eobert  threw  up  his  arms  in  mock  terror  at  the  name,  and 
departed. 

"We  are  abandoned,"  cried  Rose,  flinging  herself  into,  the  ! 
chair  again— then  with  a  httle  flash  of  half -irresolute  wicked- 
ness—"  and  we  are  free !  Oh,  I  hope  she  will  be  happy !" 

And  she  caught  Agnes  wildly  round  the  neck,  as  though 
she  would  drown  her  first  words  in  her  last. 

" Madcap !"  cried  Agnes,  struggling.    "Leave  me  at  least  a 
little  breath  to  wish  Catherine  joy!" 

And  they  both  fled  upstairs. 

There  was  indeed  no  nrouder  woman  in  the  three  kingdoms 
than  Mrs.  Thomburgh  tnat  night.  After  all  the  agitation 
down-stairs  she  could  not  persuade  herself  to  go  to  bed.  She 
first  knocked  up  Sarah  and  communicated  the  news ;  then  she 


EGBERT  ELSMERK. 


177 


sat  down  before  a  pier-glass  in  her  own  room  studying  the  per- 
son who  had  found  Catherine  Ley  burn  a  husband. 

''My  doing  from  beginning  to  end,"  she  cried  with  a  triumpti 
beyond  words.  ''William  has  had  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
Eobert  has  had  scarcely  as  much.  And  to  think  how  little  I 
dreamed  of  it  when  I  began !  Well,  to  be  sure,  no  one  could 
have  planned  marrying  those  two.  There's  no  one  but  Provi- 
dence could  have  f orseen  it— they're  so  different.  And  after 
all  it's  done.   Now  then,  whom  shall  I  have  next  year?" 

W^.    "   — 

BOOK  IL^SVRREr. 

CHAPTER  XI. 

Farewell  to  the  mountains ! 

The  scene  in  which  the  next  act  of  this  unpretending  history 
is  to  run  its  course  is  of  a  very  different  kind.  In  place  of  the 
rugged  northern  nature—a  nature  wild  and  solitary  indeed,  but 
'Still  rich,  luxuriant,  and  friendly  to  the  senses  of  the  traveler, 
even  in  its  loneliest  places.  The  heaths  and  woods  of  some  dis- 
tricts of  Surrey  are  [scarcely  more  thickly  peopled  than  the 
fells  of  Westmoreland;  the  walker  may  wander  for  miles,  and 
still  enjoy  an  untamed,  primitive  earth,  guiltless  of  boundary 
or  furrow,  the  undisturbed  home  of  all  that  grows  and  flies, 
where  the  rabbits,  the  lizards,  and  the  birds  live  their  life  as 
tney  please,  either  ignorant  of  intruding  man  or  strangely  lit- 
tle incommoded  by  his  neighborhood.  And  yet  there  is  nothing  ^ 
forbidding  or  austere  in  these  wide  solitudes.  The  patches  of 
graceful  birchwood;  the  miniature  lakes  nestling  among  them ; 
the  brakes  of  ling— pink,  faintly  scented,  a  feast  for  every 
sense;  the  stretches  of  purple  heather  glowing  into  scarlet  un- 
der the  touch  of  the  sun;  the  scattered  farm-houses,  so  mellow 
in  color,  so  pleasant  in  outline;  the  general  softness  and  lavish- 
ness  of  the  earth  and  all  it  bears,  make  these  Surrey  commons 
not  a  wilderness,  but  a  paradise.  Nature,  indeed,  here  is  hke 
some  spoiled,  petulant  child.  She  will  bring  forth  nothing,  or 
almost  nothing,  for  man's  grosser  needs.  Ask  her  to  bear  corn 
or  pasture  flocks,  and  she  will  be  miserly  and  grudging.  But 
ask  her  only  to  be  beautiful,  enticing,  capriciously  lovely, 
and  she  will  throw  herself  into  the  task  with  all  the  abandon- 
ment, all  the  energy,  that  heart  could  wish. 
It  is  oa  the  borders  of  one  of  the  wilder  districts  of  a  coimty, 


178 


ROBEET  ELSMERB. 


which  is  throughout  a  strange  mixture  of  suburbanism  and 
the  desert,  that  we  next  meet  with  Robert  and  Catherine 
Elsmere.    The  rectory  of  Murewell  occupied  the  highest  point 
of  a  gentle  swell  of  ground  which  sloped  through  corn-fields  and^ 
woods  to  a  plain  of  boundless  heather  on  the  south,  and  climbed . 
away  on  the  north  toward  the  long  chalk  ridge  of  the  Hog's  ; 
Back.    It  was  a  square  white  house  pretending  neither  to  j 
beauty  nor  state,  a  Httle  awkwardly  and  barely  placed,  with  i 
only  a  small  stretch  of  grass  and  a  low  hedge  between  it  and 
the  road.   A  few  tall  firs  chmbing  above  the  roof  gave  a  httle 
grace  and  clothing  to  its  southern  side,  and  behind  it  there  was  i 
a  garden  sloping  softly  down  toward  the  village  at  its  foot— a  i 
garden  chiefly  noticeable  for  its  grass  walks,  the  luxuriance  of  : 
the  fruit  trees  chnging  to  its  old  red  walls,  and  the  masses  of  : 
pink  and  white  phloxes  which  now  in  August  gave  it  the  flow- 
eriness  and  the  gayety  of  an  Elizabethan  song.     Below  in  the 
hollow  and  to  the  right  lay  the  picturesque  medley  of  the  village 
—roofs  and  gables  and  chimneys,  yellow-gray  thatch,  shining 
whitewash,  and  mellowed  brick,  making  a  bright  patchwork^ 
among  the  softening  trees,  thin  wreaths  of  blue  smoke,  hke  airy- 
ribbons,  tangled  through  it  all.   Eising  over  the  rest  was  a 
house  of  some  dignity.    It  had  been  an  old  manor  house,  now 
it  was  half  ruinous  and  the  village  inn.    Some  generations- 
back  the  squire  of  the  day  had  dismantled  it,  jealous  that  so 
big  a  house  should  exist  in  the  same  parish  as  the  Hall,  and  the 
spoils  of  it  had  furnished  the  rectory ;  so  that  the  homely  house 
was  fitted  inside  with  mahogany  doors  and  carved  cupboard 
fronts,  in  which  Robert  delighted,  and  in  which  even  Catherine 
felt  a  proprietary  pleasure. 

Altogether  a  quiet,  rural,  English  spot.  If  the  house  had  no 
beauty,  it  commanded  a  world  of  lovehness.  All  around  it- 
north,  south,  and  west— there  spread,  as  it  were,  a  vast  play- 
ground of  heather  and  wood  and  grassy  common,  in  which  the 
few  workaday  patches  of  hedge  and  plowed  land  seemed  in- 
gulfed and  lost.  Close  under  the  rectory  windows,  however, 
was  a  vast  sloping  cornfield,  belonging  to  the  glebe,  the  largest 
and  fruitfulest  of  the  neighborhood.  At  the  present  moment  it 
was  just  ready  for  the  reaper— the  golden  ears  had  clearly  but 
a  few  more  days  or  hours  to  ripple  in  the  sun.  It  was  bounded 
by  a  dark,  summer-scorched  belt  of  wood,  and  beyond,  over 
the  distance,  rose  a  blue-pointed  hill,  ,  which  seemed  to  be  there 
only  to  attract  and  make  a  center  for  the  sunset 


BOBEBT  ELSMERE. 


1?9 


As  compared  with  her  Westmoreland  Hfe,  the  first  twelve 
months  of  wifehood  had  been  to  Catherine  Elsmere  a  time  of 
rapid  and  changing  experience.  A  few  days  out  of  their  honey- 
moon, had  been  spent  at  Oxford.  It  was  a  week  before  the 
opening  of  the  October  term,  but  many  of  the  senior  members 
of  the  university  were  already  in  residence,  and  the  stagnation 
of  the  long  vacation  was  over.  Langham  was  up ;  so  was  Mr. 
Grey,  and  many  another  old  friend  of  Robert's.  The  bride  and 
bridegroom  were  much  feted  in  a  quiet  way.  They  dined  in 
many  common  rooms  and  bursaries;  they  were  invited  to  many 
luncheons,  whereat  the  superabundance  of  food  and  the  length 
of  time  spent  upon  it  made  the  Puritan  Catherine  uncomfort- 
able ;  and  Langham  devoted  himself  to  taking  the  wife  through 
colleges  and  gardens,  schools  and  Bodleian,  in  most  orthodox 
fashion,  indemnifying  himself  afterward  for  the  sense  of  con- 
straint her  presence  imposed  upon  him  by  a  talk  and  a  smoke 
with  Eobert. 

He  could  not  understand  the  Elsmere  marriage.  That  a  crea- 
ture so  mobile,  so  sensitive,  so  susceptible  as  Elsmere  should 
have  fallen  in  love  with  this  stately,  silent  woman,  with  her 
very  evident  rigidities  of  thought  and  training,  was  only  an- 
other illustration  of  the  mysteries  of  matrimony.  He  could 
not  get  on  with  her,  and  after  awhile  did  not  try  to  do  so. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  as  to  Elsmere's  devotion.  He  was 
absorbed,  wrapped  up  in  her. 

She  has  affected  hira,"  thought  the  tutor,  ''at  a  period  of 
life  when  he  is  more  struck  by  the  difficulty  of  being  morally 
strong  than  by  the  difficulty  of  being  intellectually  clear.  The 
touch  of  religious  genius  in  her  braces  him  like  the  breath  of 
an  Alpine  wind.  One  can  see  him  expanding,  glowing  under 
it.  Bien !  sooner  he  than  I.  To  be  fair,  however,  let  me  re- 
member that  she  decidedly  does  not  like  me— which  may  cut 
tne  off  from  Elsmere.  However"— and  Langham  sighed  over 
bis  fire— ''what  have  he  and  I  to  do  with  one  another  in  the 
future?  By  all  the  laws  of  character  something  untoward 
might  come  out  of  this  marriage.  But  she  will  mold  him, 
rather  than  he  her.  Besides,  she  will  have  children—and  that 
solves  most  things." 

Meanwhile,  if  Langham  dissected  the  bride  as  he  dissected 
most  people,  Robert,  with  that  keen  observation  which  lay  hid- 
den somewhere  under  his  careless  boyish  ways,  noticed  many 
points  of  change  about  his  old  friend.    Langham  seemed  to 


180 


EGBERT  ELSMERE. 


him  less  human,  more  strange,  than  ever ;  the  points  of  con! 
tact  between  him  and  active  life  were  lessening  in  numbe: ' 
term  by  term.  He  lectured  only  so  far  ^s  was  absoluteh 
necessary  for  the  retention  of  his  post,  and  he  spoke  witl 
wholesale  distate  of  his  pupils.  He  had  set  up  a  book  on  *'Th( 
Schools  of  Athens,"  but  when  Eobert  saw  the  piles  of  discon 
nected  notes  already  accumulated,  he  perfectly  understooc 
that  the  book  was  a  mere  blind,  a  screen,  behind  which  a  difii; 
cult  fastidious  nature  trifled  and  procrastinated  as  it  pleased 

Again,  when  Elsmere  was  an  undergraduate  Langham  anc 
Grey  had  been  intimate.  Now,  Langham's  tone  apropos  oi 
Grey^s  politics  and  Grey's  dreams  of  church  reform  was  a? 
languidly  sarcastic  as  it  was  with  regard  to  most  of  the  strenu 
ous  things  of  life.  ''Nothmg  particular  is  true,"  his  mannei 
said,  "and  all  action  is  a  degrading pis-aller.  Get  through  the 
day  somehow,  with  as  little  harm  to  yourself  and  other  peopk 
as  may  be ;  do  your  duty  if  you  like  it,  but,  for  Heaven's  sake, 
don't  cant  about  it  to  other  people !" 

If  the  affinities  of  character  count  for  much,  Catherine  and 
Henry  Grey  should  certainly  have  imderstood  each  other.  The 
tutor  liked  the  look  of  Elsmere's  wife.  His  kindly  brown  eyes 
rested  on  her  with  pleasure;  he  tried  in  his  shy  but  friendly 
way  to  get  at  her,  and  there  was  in  both  of  them  a  touch  oi 
homeliness,  a  sheer  power  of  unworldliness  that  should  have 
drawn  them  together.  And  indeed  Catherine  felt  the  charm, 
the  spell  of  this  born  leader  of  men.  But  she  watched  him  with 
a  sort  of  troubled  admiration,  puzzled,  evidently,  by  the  halo 
of  moral  dignity  surrounding  him,  which  contended  with  some- 
thing else  in  her  mind  respecting  him.  Some  words  of  Eobert's 
uttered  very  early  in  their  acquaintance,  had  set  her  on  her 
guard.  Speaking  of  religion,  Robert  had  said:  ''Grey  is  not 
one  of  us;"  and  Catherine,  restrained  by  a  hundred  ties  of 
training  and  temperament,  would  not  surrender  herself,  and 
could  not  if  she  would. 

Then  had  followed  their  home-coming  to  the  rectory,  and 
that  first  institution  of  their  common  life,  never  to  be  forgotten 
for  the  tenderness  and  the  sacredness  of  it.  Mrs.  Elsmere  had 
received  them,  and  had  then  retired  to  a  little  cottage  of  her 
own  close  by.  She  had  of  course  already  made  the  acquain- 
tance of  her  daughter-in-law,  for  she  had  been  the  Thorn- 
burgh's  guest  for  ten  days  before  the  marriage  in  September, 
and  Catherine,  moreover,  had  paid  her  a  short  visit  earlier  in 


EGBERT  ELSMERE. 


181 


B  bhe  summer.  But  it  was  now  that  for  the  first  time  she  realized 

J to  the  full  the  character  of  the  woman  Eobert  had  married. 
Catherine's  manner  to  her  was  sweetness  itself.  Parted  from 
i  iher  own  mother  as  she  was,  the  younger  woman's  strong  filial 
lijinstincts  spent  themselves  in  tending  the  mother  who  had  been 
the  guardian  and  hfe  of  Eobert's  youth.  And  Mrs.  Elsmere  in 
return  was  awed  by  Catherine's  moral  force  and  parity  of 
nature,  and  proud  of  her  personal  beauty,  which  was  so  real, 
in  spite  of  the  severity  of  the  type,  and  to  which  marriage  had 
given,  at  any  rate  for  the  moment,  a  certain  added  softness 
and  briiUancy. 

^  But  there  were  difficulties  in  the  way.  Catherine  was  a  little 
too  apt  to  treat  Mrs.  Elsmere  as  she  would  have  treated  her  own 
mother.  But  to  be  nursed  and  protected,  to  be  screened  from 
draughts,  and  run  after  with  shawls  and  stools  was  something 
wholly  new  and  intolerable  to  Mrs.  Elsmere.  She  could  not 
away  with  it,  and  as  soon  as  she  had  sufficiently  lost  her  first 
awe  of  her  daughter-in-law  she  would  revenge  herself  in  all 
sorts  of  droll  ways,  and  with  occasional  flashes  of  petulent  Irish 
wit  which  could  make  Catherine  color  and  draw  back.  Then 
Mrs.  Elsmere,  touched  with  remorse,  would  catch  her  by  the 
neck  and  give  her  a  resounding  kiss,  which  perhaps  puzzled 
Catherine  no  less  than  her  sarcasm  of  a  minute  before. 

Moreover,  Mrs.  Elsmere  felt  ruefully  from  the  first  that  her 
^ew  daughter  was  decidedly  deficient  in  the  sense  of  humor. 

I  believe  it's  that  father , of  hers,"  she  would  say  to  herself, 
«!rossly.  "By  what  Eobert  tells  me  of  him  he  must  have  been 
one  of  the  people  who  get  ill  in  their  minds  for  want  of  a  good 
nouth-fiUing  laugh  now  and  then.  The  man  who  can't  amuse 
himself  a  bit  out  of  the  world  is  sure  to  get  his  head  addled 
somehow,  poor  creature." 

Certainly  it  needed  a  faculty  of  laughter  to  be  always  able  to 
lake  Mrs.  Elsmere  on  the  right  side.  For  instance,  Catherine 
was  more  often  scandalized  than  impressed  by  her  mother  in- 
law's charitable  performances. 

Mrs.  Elsmere's  little  cottage  was  filled  with  work-house  or- 
phans sent  to  her  from  different  London  districts.  The  train- 
ing of  these  girls  was  the  chief  business  of  her  life,  and  a  very 
odd  training  it  was,  conducted  in  the  noisiest  way  and  on  the 
most  familiar  terms.  It  was  undeniable  that  the  girls  gener- 
ally did  well,  and  they  invariably  adored  Mrs.  Elsmere,  but 
Catherine  did  not  much  like  to  think  about  them.  Their 


182 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


1 


household  teaching  under  Mrs.  Elsmere  and  her  old  servant 
Martha — as  great  an  original  as  herself — was  so  irregular,  their 
rehgious  training  so  extraordinary,  the  clothes  in  which  they 
were  allowed  to  disport  themselves  so  scandalous  to  the  sober 
taste  of  the  rector's  wife,  that  Catherine  involuntarily  regarded 
the  little  cottage  on  the  hill  as  a  spot  of  misrule  in  the  general 
order  of  the  parish.  She  would  go  in,  say,  at  eleven  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  find  her  mother-in-law  in  bed,  half  dressed,  with 
all  her  hand-maidens  about  her,  giving  her  orders,  reading  her 
letters  and  the  newspaper,  cutting  out  her  girls'  frocks,  in- 
structing them  in  the  fashions,  or  delivering  little  homilies  on 
questions  suggested  by  the  news  of  the  day  to  the  more  intelli- 
gent of  them.  The  room,  the  whole  house,  would  seem  to 
Catherine  in  a  detestable  litter.  If  so,  Mrs.  Elsmere  never 
apologized  for  it.  On  the  contrary,  as  she  saw  Catherine 
sweep  a  mass  of  miscellaneous  debris  off  a  chair  in  search  of  a 
seat,  the  small  bright  eyes  would  twinkle  with  something  that 
was  certainly  nearer  amusement  than  shame. 

And  in  a  hundred  other  ways  Mrs.  Elsmere's  relations  with 
the  poor  of  the  parish  often  made  Catherine  miserable.  She  her- 
self had  the  most  angelic  pity  and  tenderaess  for  sorrows  and 
sinners ;  but  sin  was  sin  to  her,  and  when  she  saw  Mrs.  Elsmere 
more  than  half  attracted  by  the  stronger  vices,  and  in  many 
cases  more  inclined  to  laugh  with  what  was  human  in  them 
than  to  weep  over  what  was  vile,  Eobert's  wife  would  go  away 
and  wrestle  with  herself,  that  she  might  be  betrayed  into  noth- 
ing harsh  toward  Eobert's  mother. 

But  fate  allowed  their  differences,  whether  they  were  deep  or 
shallow,  no  time  to  develop.  A  week  of  bitter  cold  at  the  be- 
ginning of  January  struck  down  Mrs.  Elsmere,  whose  strange 
ways  of  living  were  more  the  result  of  certain  long-standing  deli- 
cacies of  health  than  she  had  ever  allowed  any  one  to  imagine. 
A  few  days  of  acute  inflammation  of  the  lungs,  borne  with  a 
patience  and  heroism  which  showed  the  Irish  character  at  its 
finest — a  moment  of  agonized  wrestling  with  that  terror  of  death 
which  had  haunted  the  keen,  vivacious  soul  from  its  earliest  con- 
sciousness, ending  in  a  glow  of  spiritual  victory — and  Eobert 
found  himself  motherless.  He  and  Catherine  had  never  left 
her  since  the  beginning  of  the  ilkiess.  In  one  of  the  intervals 
toward  the  end,  when  there  was  a  faint  power  of  speech,  she 
drew  Catherine's  cheek  down  to  her  and  kissed  her. 

Grod  bless  you  1"  the  old  woman's  voice  said,  with  a  solem- 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


188 


nity  in  it  which  Eobert  knew  well,  but  which  Catherine  had 
never  heard  before.  Be  good  to  him,  Catherine— be  always 
good  to  him  1" 

And  she  lay  looking  from  the  husband  to  the  wife  with  a  cer- 
tain wistf ulness  which  pained  Catherine,  she  knew  not  why. 
i  But  she  answered  with  tears  and  tender  words,  and  at  last  the 
mother's  face  settled  into  a  peace  which  death  did  but  confirm. 

This  great  and  unexpected  loss,  which  had  shaken  to  their 
I  depths  all  the  feelings  and  affections  of  his  youth,  had  thrown 
Elsmere  more  than  ever  on  his  wife.  To  him,  made  as  it  seemed 
for  love  and  for  enjoyment,  grief  was  a  novel  and  difficult  bur- 
den. He  felt  with  passionate  gratitude  that  his  wife  helped  him 
to  bear  it  so  that  he  came  out  from  it  not  lessened  but  enno- 
bled, that  she  preserved  him  from  many  a  lapse  of  nervous 
weariness  and  irritation  into  which  his  temperament  might 
easily  have  been  betrayed. 

And  how  his  very  dependence  had  endeared  him  to  Catherine ! 
That  vibrating  responsive  quality  in  him,  so  easily  mistaken  for 
mere  weaknesss,  which  made  her  so  necessary  to  him— there  is 
nothing  perhaps  which  wins  more  deeply  upon  a  woman.  For 
all  the  while  it  was  balanced  in  a  hundred  ways  by  the  illimit- 
able respect  which  his  character  and  his  doings  compelled  from 
those  about  him.  To  be  the  strength,  the  inmost  joy  of  a  man 
who  within  the  conditions  of  his  hfe  seems  to  you  a  hero  at 
every  turn— there  is  no  happiness  more  penetrating  for  a  wife 
than  this. 

On  this  August  afternoon  the  Elsmeres  were  expecting  visi- 
I  tors.    Catherine  had  sent  the  pony-carriage  to  the  station  to 
I  meet  Rose  and  Langham,  who  was  to  escort  her  from  Waterloo. 
For  various  reasons,  all  characteristic,  it  was  Rose's  first  visit 
to  Catherine's  new  home.  * 

Now  she  had  been  for  six  weeks  in  London,  and  had  been  per- 
suaded to  come  on  to  her  sister,  at  the  end  of  her  stay.  Cath- 
j  erine  was  looking  forward  to  her  coming  with  many  tremors, 
i  The  wild  ambitious  creature  had  been  not  one  atom  appeased 
i  by  Manchester  and  its  opportunities.    She  had  gone  back  to 
I  Whindale  in  April  only  to  fall  into  more  hopeless  discontent 
than  ever.  ' '  She  can  hardly  be  civil  to  anybody, "  Agnes  wrote 
to  Catherin-e.      The  cry  now  is  all  '  London '  or  at  least  '  Ber- 
lin,' and  she  can  not  imagine  why  papa  should  ever  have 
«7i«ibed  to  condemn  us  to  such  a  prison." 


m 


KOBEET  ELSMEEE. 


Catherine  grew  pale  with  indignation  as  she  read  the  worda^l 
and  thought  of  her  father's  short-hved  joy  in  the  old  house  am 
its  few  green  fields,  or  of  the  confidence  which  had  soothed  hii 
last  moments,  that  it  would  be  well  there  with  his  wife  anc 
children,  far  from  the  hubbub  of  the  world. 

But  Eose  and  her  whims  were  not  facts  which  could  be  pwi 
aside.  They  would  have  to  be  grappled  with,  probably  hu 
mored.  As  Catherine  strolled  out  into  the  garden,  listening 
alternately  for  Robert  and  for  the  carriage,  she  told  herself  tha 
it  would  be  a  difficult  visit.  And  the  presence  of  Mr.  Langhani 
would  certainly  not  dinimish  its  difficulty.  The  mere  thought; 
of  him  set  the  wife's  young  form  stiffening.  A  cold  breatt 
seemed  to  blow  from  Edward  Langham,  which  chilled  Cath 
erine's  whole  being.    Why  was  Robert  so  fond  of  him? 

But  the  more  Langham  cut  himself  off  from  the  world,  the 
more  Robert  clung  to  him  in  his  wistful  affectionate  way.  Th( 
more  difficult  their  intercourse  became,  the  more  determinec 
the  younger  man  seemed  to  be  to  maintain  it.  Catherine  im 
agined  that  he  often  scourged  himself  in  secret  for  the  fact  thai 
the  gratitude  which  had  once  flowed  so  readily  had  now  becomt 
a  matter  of  reflection  and  resolution. 

^'"Why  should  we  always  expect  to  get  pleasure  from  oui  ' 
friends  ?"  he  had  said  to  her  once  with  vehemence.  It  shoulc  | 
be  pleasure  enough  to  love  them."  And  she  knew  very  wel: 
of  whom  he  was  thinking.  ' 

How  late  he  was  this  afternoon.    He  must  have  been  a  lon^ 
round.    She  had  news  for  him  of  great  interest.    The  lodge 
keeper  from  the  Hall  had  just  looked  in  to  tell  the  rector  thai  i 
the  squire  and  his  widowed  sister  were  expected  home  in  foui , 
days. 

But',  interesting  as  the  news  was,  Catherine's  looks  as  sht- 
pondered  it  were  certainly  not  looks  of  pleased  expectation, 
Neither  of  them,  indeed,  had  much  cause  to  rejoice  in  th( 
squire's  advent.  Since  their  arrival  in  the  parish  the  splendic 
Jacobean  Hall  had  been  untenanted.  The  squire,  who  wai 
abroad  with  his  sister  at  the  time  of  their  coming,  had  senli 
a  civil  note  to  the  new  rector  on  his  settlement  in  the  par- 
ish, naming  some  common  Oxford  acquaintance,  and  desiring 
him  to  make  what  use  of  the  famous  Murewell  Library  hi 
pleased.  '*I  hear  of  you  as  a  friend  to  letters,"  he  wrote 
*'do  my  books  a  service  by  using  them."  The  words  were  I 
graceful  enough.   Robert  had  answered  them  warmly.  H( 


ROBBBT  ELSMEBK. 


186 


liad  also  avaUed  himself  largely  of  the  permission  they  had 
3onveyed.  We  shall  see  presently  that  the  squire,  though  ab- 
sent, had  already  made  a  deep  impression  on  the  young  man's 
imagination. 

But  unfortunately  he  came  across  the  squire  in  two  capacities. 
Kr.  Wendover  was  not  only  th^  owner  of  Murewell,  he  was  also 
bhe  owner  of  the  whole  land  o^  the  parish,  where,  however,  by  a 
3urious  accident  of  inheritance,  dating  some  generations  back, 
ind  implying  some  very  remotf'  connection  between  the  Wend- 
over and  Elsxnere  families,  he  was  not  the  patron  of  the  living, 
D^pw  the  more  Elsmere  studied  him  under  this  aspect,  the 
ieeper  became  his  dismay.  The  estate  was  entirely  in  the  hands 
of  an  agent  who  had  managed  it  for  some  fifteen  years,  and  of 
whose  character  the  rector,  before  he  had  been  two  months  in 
bhe  parish,  had  formed  the  very  poorest  opinion.  Eobert,  enter- 
ing upon  his  duties  with  the  ardor  of  the  modern  reformer, 
armed  not  only  with  chanty  but  with  science,  found  himself 
confronted  by  the  opposition  of  a  man  who  combined  the 
shrewdness  of  an  attorney  with  the  callousness  of  a  drunkard. 
It  seemed  incredible  that  a  great  land-owner  should  commit  his 
interests  and  the  interests  of  hundreds  of  human  beings  to  the 
hands  of  such  a  person. 

-  By  and  by,  however,  as  the  rector  penetrated  more  deeply 
into  the  situation,  he  found  his  indignation  transferring  itself 
more  and  more  from  the  man  to  the  master.  It  became  clear 
|to  him  that  in  some  respects  Henslowe  suited  the  squire  admir- 
ably. It  became  also  clear  to  him  that  the  squire  had  taken 
pains  for  years  to  let  it  be  known  that  he  cared  not  one  rap 
I  for  any  human  being  on  his  estate  in  any  other  capacity  than 
las  a  rent-payer  or  wage-receiver.  What  !  Live  for  thirty 
I  years  in  that  great  house,  and  never  care  whether  your  ten- 
ants and  laborers  lived  like  pigs  or  like  men,  whether  the 
I  old  people  died  of  damp,  or  the  children  of  diphtheria,  which 
iyou  might  have  prevented  I  Robert's  brow  grew  dark  over 
it. 

The  click  of  an  opening  gate.    Catherine  shook  off  her  dream- 
I  iness  at  once,  and  hurried  along  the  path  to  meet  her  husband. 
:  In  another  moment  Elsmere  came  in  sight,  swinging  along,  a 
holly  stick  in  his  hand,  his  face  aglow  with  health  and  exercise 
and  kindhng  at  the  sight  of  his  wife.    She  hung  on  his  arm,  and, 
with  his  hand  laid  tenderly  on  hers,  he  asked  her  how  she  fared. 


186 


BOBERT  ELSMERK. 


She  answered  briefly,  butVith  a  little  flush,  her  eyes  raised  to 
his.    She  was  within  a  few  weeks  of  motherhood. 

Then  they  strolled  along  talking.  He  gave  her  an  account  of 
his  afternoon,  which,  to  judge  from  the  worried  expression 
which  presently  effaced  the  joy  of  their  meeting,  had  been  spent 
in  some  unsuccessful  effort  or  other.  They  paused  after  awhile, 
and  stood  looking  over  the  plain  before  them  to  a  spot  beyond 
the  nearer  belt  of  woodland,  where  from  a  little  hollow  about 
three  miles  off  there  rose  a  cloud  of  bluish  smoke. 

"  He  will  do  nothing  !"  cried  Catherine,  incredulous. 

''Nothing  !  It  is  the  policy  of  the  estate,  apparently,  4;o 
let  the  old  and  bad  cottages  fall  to  pieces.  He  sneers  at 
one  for  supposing  any  land-owner  has  money  for  '  philan- 
thropy' just  now.  If  the  people  don't  like  the  houses  they  can 
go.  I  told  him  I  should  appeal  to  the  squire  as  soon  as  he  came 
home.'' 

''What  did  he  say  ?" 

"He  smiled,  as  much  as  to  say:  '  Do  as  you  like,  and  be  a 
fool  for  your  pains/  How  the  squire  can  let  that  man  tyran 
nize  over  the  estate  as  he  does,  I  cannot  conceive.  Oh,  Cath 
erine,  I  am  full  of  qualms  about  the  squire  !" 

"So  am  I,"  she  said,  with  a  little  darkening  of  her  clear 
look.  "  Old  Benham  has  just  been  in  to  say  they  are  expected 
on  Thursday." 

Eobert  started.  "Are  these  our  lavSt  days  of  peace?"  htr 
said,  wistfully—"  the  last  days  of  our  honey-moon,  Catherine?" 

She  smiled  at  him  with  a  Httle  quiver  of  passionate  feeling 
under  the  smile. 

"  Can  anything  touch  that?"  3he  said,  under  her  breath. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said  presently,  his  voice  dropping,  "that 
it  is  only  a  month  to  our  wedding-day?  Oh,  my  wife,  have  I 
kept  my  promise— is  the  new  life  as  rich  as  the  old?" 

She  made  no  answer,  except  the  dumb,  sweet  answer  that 
love  writes  on  eyes  and  lips.    Then  a  tremor  passed  over  her, 

"  Are  we  too  happy?   Can  it  be  well— be  right?" 

"Oh,  let  us  take  it  like  children!"  he  cried,  ^^th  a  shiver, 
almost  petulantly.    "  There  will  be  dark  hours  enough.  It 
so  good  to  be  happy." 

She  leaned  her  cheek  fondly  against  his  shoulder.  To  her 
Ufe  always  meant  self-restraint,  self -repression,  self-deaden^ 
ing,  if  need  be.   The  Puritan  distrust  of  personal  joy  as  some^ 


EGBERT  ELSMERE. 


187 


thing  dangerous  and  ensnaring  was  deep  ingrained  in  her.  It 
had  no  natural  hold  on  him. 

They  stood  a  moment  hand  in  hand  frontmg  the  corn-field 
and  the  sun-filled  west,  while  the  afternoon  breeze  blew  back 
the  man's  curly  reddish  hair,  long  since  restored  to  all  its  nat^ 
ural  abundance. 

Presently  Eobert  broke  into  a  broad  smile. 
What  do  you  suppose  Langham  has  been  entertaining  Eose 
with  on  the  way,  Catherine?   I  wouldn't  miss  her  remarks  to- 
night on  the  escort  we  provided  her  for  a  good  deal." 

Catherine  said  nothing,  but  her  delicate  eyebrows  went  up  a 
little.    Robert  stooped  and  Hghtly  kissed  her. 

You  never  performed  a  greater  act  of  virtue  even  m  your 
hfe,  Mrs.  Elsmere,  than  when  you  wrote  Langham  that  nice 
letter  of  invitation." 

And  then  the  young  rector  sighed,  as  many  a  boyish  mem- 
ory came  crow^din^  upon  him. 

A  sound  of  wheels !  Robert's  long  legs  took  him  to  the  gate 
in  a  twinkling,  and  he  flung  it  open  just  as  Rose  drove  up  in 
fine  style,  a  thin,  dark  man  beside  her. 

Rose  lent  her  bright  cheek  to  Catherine's  kiss,  and  the  two 
sisters  walked  up  to  the  door  together,  whHe  Robert  and  Lang- 
ham loitered  after  them  talking. 

'  **0h,  Catherine  1"  Said  Rose,  under  her  breath,  as  they  got 
into  the  drawing-room,  with  a  little  theatrical  gesture,  **why 
on  earth  did  you  inflict  that  man  and  me  on  each  other  for  two 
mortal  hours?''  ... 
Sh-shl"  said  Catherine's  lips,  while  her  face  gleamed  with 

laughter. 

Rose  sunk  flushed  upon  a  chair,  her  eyes  glancing  up  with  a 
little  furtive  anger  in  them  as  the  two  gentlemen  entered  the 
room. 

You  found  each  other  easily  at  Waterloo?"  asked  Robert. 

'*Mr.  Langhp-m  would  never  have  found  me,"  said  Rose, 
dryly;  '^but  I  pounced  on  him  at  last- just,  I  believe,  as  he 
was  beginning  to  cherish  the  hope  of  an  empty  carriage  and 
the  solitary  enjoyment  of  his  *  Saturday  Review.'  " 

Langham  smiled  nervously.  ''Miss  Leyburn  is  too  hard  on 
a  blind  man,"  he  said,  holding  up  his  eyeglass  apologeticaUy ; 
"it  was  my  eyes,  not  my  will,  that  were  at  fault." 

Rose's  iips  curled  little.  ''And  Robert,"  she  cried,  bend- 
ing forward  as  though  something  had  just  occurred  to  her, 


188 


EGBERT  ELSMERE. 


\ 


do  tell  me— I  vowed  I  would  ask— Mr.  Langham  a  Liberal 
or  a  Conservative?   He  doesn't  know 

Robert  laughed,  so  did  Langham. 
Your  sister,"  he  said,  flushing,  ''will  have  one  so  very- 
precise  in  all  one  says." 

He  turned  his  handsome  olive  face  toward  her,  an  unwonted 
spark  of  animation  lighting  up  his  black  eyes.  It  was  evident 
that  he  felt  himself  persecuted,  but  it  was  not  so  evident 
whether  he  enjoyed  the  process  or  disliked  it. 

''Ohj^  dear,  no!"  said  Rose,  nonchalantly.  ''Only  I  have 
just  come  from  a  house  where  everybody  either  loathes  Mr. 
Gladstone  or  would  die  for  him  to-morrow.  There  was  a  girl 
of  seven  and  a  boy  of  nine  who  were  always  discussing  '  Co- 
ercion' in  the  corners  of  the  school-room.  So,  of  course,  I 
have  grown  political,  too,  and  began  to  catechise  Mr.  Lang- 
ham at  once,  and  when  he  said  '  he  didn't  know'  I  felt  I  should 
like  to  set  those  children  at  him !  They  would  soon  put  some 
principles  into  him !" 

"It  is  not  generally  lack  of  principle.  Miss  Rose,"  said  her 
brother-in-law,  "that  turns  a  man  a  doubter  in  politics,  but 
too  much !" 

And  while  he  spoke,  his  eyes  resting  on  Langham,  his  smile 
broadened  as  he  recalled  aU  those  instances  in  their  Oxford 
past,  when  he  had  taken  an  humble  share  in  one  of  the  hercu- 
lean efforts  on  the  part  of  Langham's  friends,  which  were 
always  necessary  whenever  it  was  a  question  of  screwing  a 
vote  out  of  him  on  any  debated  university  question. 

"How  dull  it  must  be  to  have  too  much  principle!"  cried 
Rose.  "  Like  a  mill  choked  with  com.  No  bread  because  the 
machine  can't  work !" 

"Defend  me  from  my  friends!"  cried  Langham,  roused. 
'*  Elsmere,  wh@n  did  I  give  you  a  right  to  caricature  me  in  this 
way?  If  I  were  interested,"  he  added,  subsiding  into  his  usual 
hesitating  ineffectiveness,  "I  suppose  I  should  know  my  own 
mind." 

And  then  seizing  the  muffins,  he  stood  presenting  them  to 
Rose  as  though  in  deprecation  of  any  further  personalities. 
Inside  him  there  was  a  hot  protest  against  an  unreasonable 
young  beauty  whom  he  had  done  his  miserable  best  to  enter- 
tain for  two  long  hours,  and  who  in  return  had  made  him  feel 
himself  more  of  a  fool  than  he  had  done  for  years.   Since  when 


ROBERT  ELSMERE* 


had  young  women  put  on  all  these  airs?  In  his  young  days 
they  knew  their  place. 

Catherine  meanwhile  sat  watching  her  sister.  The  child  was 
more  beautiful  than  ever,  but  in  other  outer  respects  the  Eose 
of  Long  Whindale  had  undergone  much  transformation.  The 
puffed  sleeves,  the  aesthetic  skirts,  the  naiVe  adornment  of  bead 
and  shell,  the  formless  hat,  which  it  pleased  her  to  imagine 
''after  Gainsborough,"  had  all  disappeared.  She  was  clad  in 
some  soft,  fawn-colored  garment,  cut  very  much  in  the  fashion ; 
her  hair  was  closely  rolled  and  twisted  about  her  lightly  hah 
anced  head;  everything  about  her  was  neat  and  fresh  and 
tight  fitting.  A  year  ago  she  had  been  a  damsel  from  the 
"Earthly  Paradise now,  so  far  as  an  English  girl  can  achieve 
it,  she  might  have  been  a  model  for  Tissot.  In  this  phase,  as 
in  the  other,  there  was  a  touch  of  extravagance.  The  girl  was 
developing  fast,  but  had  clearly  not  yet  developed.  The  rest- 
lessness, the  self -consciousness  of  Long  Whindale  we7'e  still 
there;  but  they  spoke  to  the  spectator  in  different  ways. 

But  in  her  anxious  study  of  her  sister,  Catherine  did  not  for- 
get her  place  of  hostess.  ''Did  our  man  bring  you  through  the 
park,  Mr.  Langham?"  she  asked  him,  timidly. 

"  Yes.  What  an  exquisite  old  house!"  he  ^.aid,  turning  to 
her,  and  feeling  through  all  his  critical  seme,  fae  difference  be- 
tween the  gentle,  m^atronly  dignity  of  the  <^ne  sister  and  the 
young  self  assertion  of  the  other. 

"Ah,"  said  Robert,"!  kept  that  as  a  surprise.  Did  you 
ever  see  a  more  perfect  place?" 

"What  date?" 

"  Early  Tudor~as  to  the  oldest  part.  It  was  built  by  a  re- 
lation of  Bishop  Fisher's ;  then  largely  rebuilt  under  James  I. 
Elizabeth  stayed  there  twice.  There  is  a  trace  of  a  visit  of  Sid- 
ney's. Waller  was  there,  and  left  a  copy  of  verses  in  the 
library.  Evelyn  laid  out  a  great  deal  of  the  garden.  Lord 
Clarendon  wrote  part  of  his  History  in  the  garden,  et  cetera, 
et  cetera.  The  place  is  steeped  in  associations,  and  as  beautl* 
ful  as  a  dream,  to  begin  with." 

"  And  the  owner  of  all  this  is  the  author  of  '  The  Idcds  of  the 
Market-place?'" 

Robert  nodded. 

"  Did  you  ever  meet  him  at  Oxford?  I  believe  he  was  there 
once  or  twice  during  my  time,  but  I  never  saw  him." 

"Yes,"  said  Langham,  thinking.    "I  met  him  at  dinccT  at 


190 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


the  vice  chancellor's,  now  I  remember.  A  bizarre  and  formid- 
able person— very  difficult  to  talk  to,"  he  added,  reflectively. 

Then  as  he  looked  up  he  caught  a  sarcastic  twitch  of  Rose 
Leyburn's  hps  and  understood  it  in  a  moment.  Incontinently 
he  forgot  the  squire  and  fell  to  asking  himself  what  had  pos- 
sessed him  on  that  luckless  journey  down.  He  had  never 
seemed  to  himself  more  perverse,  more  unmanageable ;  and  for 
once  his  philosophy  did  not  enable  him  to  swallow  the  certainty 
that  this  slim,  flashing  creature  must  have  thought  him  a  mor- 
bid idiot  with  as  much  sang-froid  as  usual. 

Robert  interrupted  his  rQflections  by  some  Oxford  question, 
and  presently  Catherine  carried  off  Rose  to  her  room.  On 
their  way  they  passed  a  door,  beside  which  Catherine  paused 
hesitating,  and  then  with  a  bright  flush  on  the  face,  which  had 
such  maternal  calm  in  it  already,  she  threw  her  arm  round 
Rose  and  drew  her  in.  It  was  a  white  empty  room,  smelling 
of  the  roses  outside,  and  waiting  in  the  evening  stillness  for  the 
life  that  was  to  be.  Rose  looked  at  it  all— at  the  piles  of  tiny 
garments,  the  cradle,  the  pictures  from  Retsch's  Song  of  the 
Bell,"  which  had  been  the  companions  of  their  own  childhood, 
on  the  walls— and  something  stirred  in  the  girl's  breast. 

Catherine,  I  believe  you  have  everything  you  want,  or  you 
soon  will  have !"  she  cried,  almost  with  a  kind  of  bitterness, 
laying  her  hands  on  her  sister's  shoulders. 

^'Everything  but  worthiness!"  said  Catherine,  softly,  a  mist 
rising  in  her  calm  gray  eyes.  ' '  And  you,  Roschen, "  she  added, 
wistfully,  ''have  you  been  getting  a  httle  more  what  you 
want?" 

"What's  the  good  of  asking?"  said  the  girl,  with  a  little 
shrug  of  impatience.  "  As  it  creatures  hke  me  ever  got  what 
they  want !  London  has  been  good  fun,  certainly— if  one  could 
get  enough  of  it.  Catherine,  how  long  is  that  marvelous  per- 
son going  to  stay?"  and  she  pointed  in  the  direction  of  Lang- 
ham's  room. 

''A  week,"  said  Catherine,  smiling  at  the  girl's  disdainful 
tone.    "I  was  afraid  you  didn't  take  to  him." 

*'I  never  saw  such  a  being  before,"  declared  Rose — "never! 
I  thought  I  should  never  get  a  plain  answer  from  him  about 
anything.  He  wasn't  even  quite  certain  it  was  a  fine  day !  I 
wonder  if  you  set  fire  to  him  whether  he  w^ould  be  sure  it  hurt ! 
A  week,  you  say?   Heigh  ho!  what  an  age!" 

*'  Be  kind  to  him,"  said  Catherine,  discreetly  veiling  her  own 


191 


jfeeiings,  and  caressing  the  curly  golden  head  as  they  moved 
toward  the  door.    "  He's  a  poor  lone  don,  and  he  was  m  good 

toEobei^i!" 

Exctrllent  reason  for  you,  Mrs.  Elsmere,"  said  Bose,  pout- 
ing; ^'but-" 

Her  forther  remarks  were  cut  short  by  the  ^und  of  the 
front-doof  bell. 

Oh,  I  had  forgotten  Mr.  Newcome!"  cried  Cp.therine,  start- 
ing.      Come  down  soon,  Eose,  and  help  as,  though." 

^'  Who  is  he  ?"  inquired  Eose,  sharply. 
A  High  Church  clergyman  near  here,  whom  Eobert  asked 
to  tea  this  afternoon,"  said  Catherine,  ef>caping. 

Eose  took  her  hat  off  very  leisurely.  The  prospect  down- 
stairs did  not  seem  to  justify  dispatch.  She  lingered  and 
thought  of  ''Lohengrin"  and  Albani,  of  the  crowd  of  artistic 
friends  that  had  escorted  her  to  Waterloo,  of  the  way  in  which 
she  had  been  applauded  the  night  before,  of  the  joys  of  play- 
ing Brahms  with  a  long-haired  pupil  of  Eubinstein's,  who  had 
dropped  on  one  knee  and  kissed  her  hand  at  the  end  of  it,  etc. 
During  the  last  six  weeks  the  color  of  this  threadbare  world" 
had  been  freshening  before  her  in  marvelous  fashion.  And 
now,  as  she  stood  looking  out,  the  quiet  fields  opposite,  the 
BJght  of  a  cow  pushing  its  head  through  the  hedge,  the  infinite 
-simset  sky,  the  quiet  of  the  house,  filled  her  with  a  sudden 
depression.  How  dull  it  all  seemed — how  wanting  in  the  glow 
of  life! 


CHAPTEE  Xn. 


Meanwhile  down-stairs  a  curious  little  scene  was  passing, 
matched  by  Langham,  who,  in  his  usual  anti-social  way,  had 
retreated  into  a  corner  of  his  own  as  soon  as  another  visitor 
appeared.  Beside  Catherine  sat  a  Eituahst  clergyman  in  cas- 
<sock  and  long  cloak — a  saint  clearly,  though  perhaps,  to  judge 
from  the  slight  restlessness  of  movement  that  seemed  to  quiver 
through  him  perpetually,  an  irritable  one.  But  he  had  the 
saint's  wasted,  unearthly  look,  the  ascetic  brow  high  and  nar- 
row, the  veins  showing  through  the  skin,  and  a  personality  as 
magnetic  as  it  was  strong. 

Catherine  listened  to  the  new-comer,  and  gave  him  his  tea, 
with  an  aloofness  of  manner  which  was  not  lost  on  Langham. 

?h€»  is  the  Thirty-niixe  4^iiicles  in  the  flesh !"  he  said  to  him^ 


192 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


self.  ''For  her  there  must  neither  be  too  much  nor  too  little.^ 
How  ean  Elsmere  stand  it  ?" 

Elsmere  apparently  was  not  perfectly  happy.  He  sat  balanc- 
ing his  long  person  over  the  arm  of  a  chair  listening  to  the  re- , 
cital  of  some  of  the  High  Churchman's  parish  troubles  with  a 
Blight  half-embarrassed  smile.  The  vicar  of  Mottringham  wasi 
always  in  trouble.  The  narrative  he  was  pouring  out  toofel 
shape  in  Langham's  sarcastic  sense  as  a  sort  of  classical  epic, 
with  the  High  Churchman  as  a  new  champion  of  Christendom.; 
harassed  on  all  sides  by  pagan  parishioners,  crass  churchi: 
wardens,  and  treacherous  bishops.  Catherine's  fine  face  grew 
more  and  more  set,  nay  disdainful.  Mr.  Newcome  was  quite 
bUnd  to  it.  Women  never  entered  into  his  calculations  excepi 
as  sisters  or  as  penitents.  At  a  certain  diocesan  conference  h( 
had  discovered  a  sympathetic  fiber  in  the  young  rector  o^ 
Murewell,  which  had  been  to  the  imperious  persecuted  zealoi 
like  water  to  the  thirsty.  He  had  come  to-day,  drawn  by  tht 
same  quality  in  Elsmere  as  had  originally  attracted  Langhan 
to  the  St.  Anselm's  under-graduate,  and  he  sat  pouring  him 
self  out  with  as  much  freedom  as  if  all  his  companions  hac 
been  as  ready  as  he  was  to  die  for  an  alb,  or  to  spend  hal: 
their  days  in  piously  circumventing  a  bishop. 

But  presently  the  conversation  had  sHd,  no  one  knew  how 
from  Mottringham  and  its  intrigues  to  London  and  its  teeminf 
east.  Robert  was  leading,  his  eye  now  on  the  apostoHc-lookinf 
prie^vt,  now  on  his  wife.  Mr.  Newcome  resisted,  but  Rober 
had  his  way.  Then  it  came  out  that  behind  these  battles  o 
kites  and  crows  at  Mottringham,  there  lay  an  heroic  period 
when  the  pale  ascetic  had  wrestled  ten  years  with  Londoi 
poverty,  leaving  health  and  youth  and  nerves  behind  him  ii 
the  melee,  Robert  dragged  it  out  at  last,  that  struggle,  int( 
open  view,  but  with  difficulty.  The  Ritualist  may  glory  ii 
the  discomfiture  of  an  Erastian  bishop— what  Christian  dar^ 
parade  ten  years  of  lof  e  to  God  and  man  ?  And  presently 
round  Elsmere's  lip  there  dawned  a  little  smile  of  triumph 
Catherine  had  shaken  off  her  cold  silence,  her  Puritan  aloof 
ness,  was  bending  forward  eagerly  —  listening.  Stroke  b;^ 
stroke,  as  the  words  and  facts  were  beguiled  from  him,  all  tha 
was  futile  and  quarrelsome  in  the  sharp-featured  priest  sunl 
out  of  sight;  the  face  glowed  with  inward  hght;  the  stature  o 
the  man  seemed  to  rise ;  the  angel  in  him  unsheathed  its  wings 
S^:sddenly  a  story  of  the  slijms  that  Mr.  Newcome  was  telling- 


EOBEKT  ELSMERE- 


193 


a  story  of  the  purest  Christian  heroism  told  in  the  simplest 
way— came  to  an  end,  and  Catherine  leaned  toward  him  with 
a  long,  quivering  breath. 

Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you  I  That  must  have  'been  a  joy,  a 
privilege !" 

Mr.  Newcome  turned  and  looked  at  her  with  surprise. 
Yes,  it  was  a  privilege,"  he  said,  slowly— the  story  had  been 
m  account  of  the  rescue  of  a  young  country  lad  from  a  London 
den  of  thieves  and  profligates— ^ '  you  are  right ;  it  was  just  that. " 

And  then  some  sensitive  inner  fiber  of  the  man  was  set  vibrat- 
ing, and  he  would  talk  no  more  of  himself  or  his  past,  do  what 
they  would. 

So  Robert  had  hastily  to  provide  another  subject,  and  he  fell 
upon  that  of  the  squire. 

Mr.  Newcome's  eyes  flashed. 
He  is  coming  back?   I  am  sorry  for  you,  Elsmere.    '  Woe 
is  me  that  I  am  constrained  to  dwell  with  Mesech,  and  to  have 
my  habitation  among  the  tents  of  Kedar!' " 

And  he  fell  back  in  his  chair,  his  lips  tightening,  his  thin  long 
hand  lying  along  the  arm  of  it,  answering  to  that  general  im- 
pression of  combat,  of  the  spiritual  athlete,  that  hung  about 
him. 

"1  don't  know,"  said  Robert,  brightly,  as  he  leaned  against 
the  mantel-piece,  looking  curiously  at  his  visitor.  The  squire 
is  a  man  of  strong  character,  of  vast  learning.  His  library  is 
one  of  the  finest  in  England,  and  it  is  at  my  service.  I  am  not 
concerned  with  his  opinions." 

''Ah,  I  see,"  said  Newcome,  in  his  dry  est  voice,  but  sadly. 

You  are  one  of  the  people  who  believe  in  what  you  call  toler- 
ance— I  remember." 

Yes,  that  is  an  impeachment  to  which  I  plead  guilty,"  said 
Robert,  perhaps  with  equal  dryness;  ''and  you— have  your 
worries  driven  you  to  throw  tolerance  overboard?" 

Newcome  bent  forward  (|[iickly.  Strange  glow  and  intensity 
Ct  the  fanatical  eyes—strange  beauty  of  the  wasted  persecuting 
Bps! 

"Tolerance!"  he  said,  with  irritable  vehemence— "toler- 
Ifiince !  Simply  another  name  for  betrayal,  cowardice,  desertion 
I —nothing  else.  God,  Heaven,  Salvation  on  the  one  side,  the 
devil  and  hell  on  the  other— and  one  miserable  life,  one  wretch- 
ed sin-stained  will,  to  win  the  battle  with;  and  in  such  a  state 
tjf  things  you  "—he  dropped  his  voica.  t^r^^n^  out  evei'y 


194 


BOBERT  ELSMEEE. 


word  with  a  sccrnfu],  sibilant  emphasis—''  you  would  have  us 
behave  as  though  our  friends  were  our  enemies  and  our 
enemies  our  friends,  as  though  eternal  misery  were  a  baga- 
telle and  om*  faith  a  mere  alternative.  Island  for  Christ,  and 
His  foes  are  mine." 

^'  By  which  I  suppose  you  mean,"  said  Eobert,  quietly,  ''  that 
you  would  shut  your  door  on  the  writer  of  '  The  Idols  of  the 
Market-place'?" 

"Certainly." 

And  the  priest  rose,  his  whole  attention  concentrated  on  Rob- 
ert,  as  though  some  deeper-lying  motive  were  suddenly  brought 
into  play  than  any  suggested  by  the  conversation  itself. 

"Certainly.  Judge  not— so  long  as  a  man  has  not  judged 
himself— only  till  then.  As  to  an  open  enemy,  the  Christian's 
path  is  clear.  We  are  but  soldiers  under  orders.  What  busi- 
ness have  we  to  be  truce-making  on  our  own  account?  The 
war  is  not  ours,  but  God's !" 

Eobert's  eyes  had  kindled.  He  was  about  to  indulge  himself 
in  such  a  quick  passage  of  arms  as  all  such  natures  as  his  de- 
light in,  when  his  look  traveled  past  the  gaunt  figure  of  the 
Ritualist  vicar  to  his  wife.  A  sudden  pang  smote,  silenced 
him.  She  was  sitting  with  her  face  raised  to  Newcome;  and 
her  beautiful  gray  eyes  were  full  of  a  secret  passion  of  sympa- 
thy. It  was  HLe  the  sudden  re-emergence  of  something  re- 
pressed, the  satisfaction  of  something  hungry.  Robert  move  I 
closer  to  her,  and  the  color  flushed  over  all  his  young  boyish 
face. 

"  To  me,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  his  eyes  fixed  rather  on 
her  than  on  Nev/come,  "a  clergyman  has  enough  to  do  with 
those  foes  of  Christ  he  cannot  choose  but  recognize.  There  is 
no  making  truce  with  vice  or  cruelty.  Why  should  we  com- 
plicate our  task  and  spend  in  needless  struggle  the  energies  we 
might  give  to  love  and  to  our  brother?" 

His  wife  turned  to  him.  There  was  trouble  in  her  look,  then 
a  swift  lovely  dawn  of  something  indescribable.  Newcome 
moved  away  with  a  gesture  that  was  half  bitterness,  half 
weariness. 

"Wait,  my  friend,  "he  said,  slowly,  "tiU  you  have  watched 
that  man's  books  eating  the  very  heart  out  of  a  poor  creature 
as  I  have.  When  you  have  once  seen  Christ  robbed  of  a  soul 
that  might  have  been  His,  by  the  infidel  of  genius,  you  will 
loathe  all  this  Laodicean  cant  of  tolerance  as  I  do  I" 


BOBERT  ELSMERB. 


195 


There  was  an  awkward  pause.  Langham,  with  his  eyeglass 
on,  was  carefully  examining  the  make  of  a  carved  paper-knife 
lying  near  him.  The  strained,  preoccupied  mind  of  the  High 
Churchman  had  never  taken  the  smallest  account  of  his  pres- 
ence, of  which  Eobert  had  been  keenly,  not  to  say  humorously, 
conscious  throughout. 

But  after  a  minute  or  so  the  tutor  got  up,  stroUed  forward, 
and  addressed  Eobert  on  some  Oxford  topic  of  common  inter- 
est. Nevfcome,  in  a  kind  of  dream  which  seemed  to  have  sud- 
denly descended  on  him,  stood  near  them,  his  priestly  cloak 
faUing  in  long  folds  about  him,  his  ascetic  face  grave  and  rapt. 
Gradually,  however,  the  talk  of  the  two  men  dissipated  the 
mystical  cloud  about  him.  He  began  to  listen,  to  catch  the 
savor  of  Langham's  modes  of  speech,  and  of  his  languid  indif- 
ferent personality. 

''1  must  go,"  he  said,  abruptly,  after  a  minute  or  two, 
breaking  in  upon  the  friends'  conversation.  shaU  hardly 
get  home  before  dark." 

He  took  a  cold,  punctilious  leave  of  Catherine,  and  a  still 
colder  and  slighter  leave  of  Langham.  Elsmere  accompanied 
him  to  the  gate. 

On  the  way  the  older  man  suddenly  caught  him  by  the  arm. 
Elsmere,  let  me— I  am  the  elder  by  so  many  years— let 
me  speak  to  you.   My  heart  goes  out  to  you !" 

And  the  eagle  face  softened;  the  harsh  commanding  presence 
became  enveloping,  magnetic.  Robert  paused  and  looked 
dowa  upon  him,  a  quick  light  of  foresight  in  his  eye.  He  felt 
what  was  coming. 

And  down  it  swept  upon  him,  a  hurricane  of  words  hot  from 
Newcome's  inmost  being,  a  protest  winged  by  the  gathered  pas- 
sion of  years  against  certain  dangerous  tendencies  "  the  elder 
priest  discerned  in  the  younger,  against  the  worship  of  intellect 
and  science  as  such  which  appeared  in  Elsmere's  talk,  in  Els- 
mere's  choice  of  friends.  It  was  the  eternal  cry  of  the  mystic 
of  aU  ages. 

Scholarship!  learning!"  Eyes  and  Hps  flashed  into  a  ve- 
hement scorn.  You  allow  them  a  value  in  themselves,  apart 
from  the  Christian's  test.  It  is  the  modern  canker,  the  mod- 
ern curse!  Thank  God,  my  years  in  London  burned  it  out  of 
me!  Oh,  my  friend,  what  have  you  and  I  to  do  with  all  these 
curious  triflings,  which  lead  men  oftener  to  rebelhon  than  to 
worship?  Is  this  a  time  for  wholesale  trust,  for  a  maudlin uni* 


196 


ROBEET  ELSMERE. 


versal  sympathy?  Nay,  rather  a  day  of  suspicion,  a  day  of  re- 
pression !— a  time  for  trampUng  on  the  lusts  of  the  mind  no  less 
than  the  lusts  of  the  body,  a  time  when  it  is  better  to  believe 
than  to  know,  to  pray  then  to  understand !" 

Robert  was  silent  a  moment,  and  they  stood  together,  New- 
come's  gaze  of  fiery  appeal  fixed  upon  him. 

"  We  are  differently  made,  you  and  I,"  said  the  young  rector 
at  last,  with  difficulty.  Where  you  see  temptation  I  see  op- 
portimity.  I  can  not  conceive  of  God  as  the  Arch-plotter 
against  His  own  creation  1" 

Newcome  dropped  his  hold  abruptly. 
A  groundless  optimism,"  he  said,  with  harshness.  '*0n 
the  track  of  the  soul  from'  birth  to  (4eath  there  are  two  sleuth- 
hounds— Sin  and  Satan.  Mankind  forever  flies  them,  is  for. 
ever  vanquished  and  devoured.  I  see  fife  always  as  a  thread- 
like path  between  abysses  along  which  man  creeps  "—and  his 
gesture  illustrated  the  words—''  with  bleeding  hands  and  feet 
toward  one— narrow— solitary  outlet.  Woe  to  him  if  he  turn 
to  the  right  hand  or  the  left— 'I  wiU  repay,  saith  the  Lord!'  " 

Elsmere  drew  himself  up  suddenly ;  the  words  seemed  to  him 
a  blasphemy.  Then  something  stayed  the  vehement  answer  on 
his  lips.  It  was  a  sense  of  profound  intolerable  pity.  What  a 
maimed  hfe !  what  an  indomitable  soul !  Husbandhood,  father- 
hood, and  all  the  sacred  education  that  flows  from  human  joy 
forever  seK-f orbidden,  and  this  grim  creed  for  recompense ! 

He  caught  Newcome's  hand  with  a  kind  of  fihal  eagerness. 

''You  are  a  perpetual  lesson  to  me,"  he  said,  most  gently. 
''When  the  world  is  too  much  with  me  I  think  of  you  and  am 
rebuked.   God  bless  you !   But  I  know  myself.    If  I  could  see 
life  and  God  as  you  see  them  for  one  hour,  I  should  cease  to  be 
^  a  Christian  in  the  next !" 

A  flush  of  something  like  sombre  resentment  passed  over 
Newcome's  face.  There  is  a  tyrannical  element  in  all  fanati- 
cism, an  element  which  makes  opposition  a  torment.  He 
turned  abruptly  away,  and  Eobert  was  left  alone. 

It  was  a  still  clear  evening,  rich  in  the  languid  softness  and 
balm  which  mark  the  first  approaches  of  autumn.  -Elsmere 
walked  back  to  the  house,  his  head  uplifted  to  the  sky  which 
lay  beyond  the  corn-field,  his  whole  being  wrought  into  a  pas- 
sionate protest— a  passionate  invocation  of  all  things  beautiful 
and  strong  and  free,  a  clinging  to  life  and  nature  as  to  ^ouae- 
thing  wronged  and  outraged. 


ROBEET  ELSMEEE. 


197 


Suddenly  his  wife  stood  beside  him.  She  had  come  down  to 
warn  him  that  it  was  late  and  that  Langham  had  gone  to  dress; 
but  she  stood  lingering  by  his  side  after  her  message  was  given, 
and  he  made  no  movement  to  go  in.  He  turned  to  her,  the 
exaltation  gradually  dying  out  of  his  face,  and  at  last  he  stooped 
and  kissed  her  with  a  kind  of  timidity  unlike  him.  She  clasped 
both  hands  on  his  arm  and  stood  pressing  toward  him  as  though 
to  make  amends— for  she  knew  not  what.  Something—some 
sharp  momentary  sense  of  difference,  of  antagonism,  had  hurt 
that  inmost  fiber  which  is  the  conscience  of  true  passion.  She 
did  the  most  generous,  the  most  ample  penance  for  it  as  she 
stood  there  talking  to  him  of  half  indifferent  things,  but  with  a 
magic,  a  significance  of  eye  and  voice  which  seemed  to  take  all 
the  severity  from  her  beauty  and  make  her  womanhood  itself. 

At  the  evening  meal  Eose  appeared  in  pale  blue,  and  it  seemed 
to  Langham,  fresh  from  the  absolute  seclusion  of  college  rooms 
in  vacation,  that  everything  looked  flat  and  stale  beside  her,  be- 
side the  flash  of  her  white  arms,  the  gleam  of  her  hair,  the  con- 
fident grace  of  ev§ry  movement.  He  thought  her  much  too  self- 
conscious  and  self-satisfied;  and  she  certainly  did  not  make 
herself  agreeable  to  him;  but  for  all  that  he  could  hardly  take 
his  eyes  off  her ;  and  it  occurred  to  him  once  or  twice  to  envy 
Robert  the  easy  childish  friendliness  she  showed  to  him,  and  to 
him  alone  of  the  party..  The  lack  of  real  sympathy  between 
her  and  Catherine  was  evident  to  the  stranger  at  once— what, 
indeed,  could  the  two  have  in  common?  He  saw  that  Catherine 
was  constantly  on  the  point  of  blaming,  and  Eose  constantly  on 
the  point  of  rebelling.  He  caught  the  wrinkling  of  Catherine's 
brow  as  Eose  presently,  in  emulation  apparently  of  some  ac- 
quaintances she  had  been  making  in  London,  let  slip  the  names 
of  some  of  her  male  friends  without  the  ''Mr.,"  or  launched 
into  some  bolder  affectation  than  usual  of  a  comprehensive 
knowledge  of  London  society.  The  girl,  in  spite  of  all  her 
beauty,  and  her  fashion,  and  the  little  studied  details  of  her 
dress,  was  in  reality  so  crude,  so  much  of  a  child  under  it  all, 
that  it  made  her  audacities  and  assumptions  the  more  absurd, 
and  he  could  see  that  Eobert  was  vastly  amused  by  them. 

But  Langham  was  not  merely  amused  by  her.  She  was  too 
beautiful  and  too  full  of  character. 

It  astonished  him  to  find  himself  afterward  edging  over  to 
the  comer  where  she  sat  with  the  rectory  cat  on  her  knee— an 
inferior  animal,  but  the  best  substitute  for  Chattie  availabla 


198 


BOBEET  ELSMERE. 


So  it  was,  however;  and  once  in  her  neighborhood  he  made 
another  serious  effort  to  get  her  to  talk  to  him.  The  Elsmeres 
had  never  seen  him  so  conversational.  He  dropped  his  para- 
doxical melancholy;  he  roared  as  gently  as  any  suckmg  dove; 
and  Kobert,  catching  from  the  pessimist  of  St.  Anselm's,  as  the 
evening  went  on,  some  hesitating  commonplaces  worthy  of  a 
bashful  undergraduate  on  the  subject  of  the  boats  and  Com- 
memoration, had  to  beat  a  hasty  retreat,  so  greatly  did  the 
situation  tickle  his  sense  of  humor. 

But  the  tutor  made  his  vai'ious  ventures  under  a  discourag- 
ing sense  of  failure.  What  a  capricious  ambiguous  creature  it 
was,  how  fearless,  how  disagreeably  alive  to  all  his  own  dam- 
aging pecuhari  ties !  Never  had  he  been  so  piqued  for  years, 
and  as  he  floundered  about  trying  to  find  some  common  ground 
where  he  and  she  might  be  at  ease,  he  was  conscious  through- 
out of  her  mocking  indifferent  eyes,  which  seemed  to  be  saying 
to  him  all  the  time:  ''You  are  not  interesting— no,  not  a  bit! 
You  are  tiresome,  and  I  see  through  you,  but  I  must  talk  to 
you,  I  suppose,  faute  de  mieux,^'' 

Long  before  the  Httle  party  separated  for  the  night  Langham 
had  given  it  up,  and  had  betaken  himself  to  Catherine,  re- 
minding himself  with  some  sharpness  that  he  had  come  down 
%G  study  his  friend's  life,  rather  than  the  humors  of  a  provoking 
girl.    How  still  the  summer  night  was  round  the  isolated  rec- 
i  ory ;  how  fresh  and  spotless  were  all  the  appointments  of  the 
house;  what  a  Quaker  neatness  and  refinement  everywhere! 
5e  drank  in  the  scent  of  air  and  flowers  with  which  the  rooms 
✓-ere  filled ;  for  the  first  time  his  fastidious  sense  was  pleasantly 
conscious  of  Catherine's  grave  beauty;  and  even  the  mystic 
c^eremonies  of  family  prayer  had  a  certain  charm  for  him,  pagan 
he  was.    How  much  dignity  and  persuasiveness  it  has  still, 
>ie  thought  to  himself,  this  commonplace  country  life  of  om'S, 
its  best  sides ! 

Half  past  ten  arrived.  Eose  just  let  him  touch  her  hand; 
Catherine  gave  him  a  quiet  good-night,  with  various  hospitable 
wishes  for  his  nocturnal  comfort,  and  the  ladies  withdrew.  He 
saw  Robert  open  the  door  for  his  wife,  and  catch  her  thin  white 
fingers  as  she  passed  him  with  all  the  secrecy  and  passion  of  a 
lover. 

Then  they  plunged  into  the  study,  he  and  Robert,  aod  smoked 
their  fill.  The  study  was  an  astonishing  medley  Books,  nat- 
ural history  snecimens,  a  half  written  sermon,  fishing-rods. 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


199 


cricket-bats,  a  huge  medicine  cupboard— all  the  main  elements 
of  Elsmere's  new  existence  were  represented  there.  In  the 
drawing-room  with  his  wife  and  his  sister-in-law  he  h|.d  befen 
as  much  of  a  boy  as  ever;  here  clearly  he  was  a  man,  very 
much  in  earnest.  What  about?  What  did  it  all  come  to?  Can 
the  English  country  clergyman  do  much  with  his  life  and  his 
energies?  Langham  approached  the  subject  with  his  usual 
skepticism. 

Eobert  for  awhile,  however,  did  not  help  him  to  solve  it. 
He  fell  at  once  to  talking  about  the  squire,  as  though  it  cleared 
his  mind  to  talk  out  his  difficulties  even  to  so  ineffective  a 
counselor  as  Langham.  Langham,  indeed,  was  but  faintly 
interested  in  the  squire's  crimes  as  a  landlord,  but  there  was  a 
certain  interest  to  be  got  out  of  the  struggle  in  Elsmere's  mind 
between  the  attractiveness  of  the  squire,  as  one  of  the  most 
difficult  and  original  personalities  of  English  letters,  and  that 
moral  condemnation  of  him  as  a  man  of  possessions  and  ordi- 
nary human  responsibilities  with  which  the  young"  reforming 
rector  was  clearly  penetrated.  So  that,  as  long  as  he  could 
smoke  under  it,  he  was  content  to  let  his  companion  describe 
to  him  Mr.  Wendover's  connection  with  the  property,  his 
accession  to  it  in  middle  life  after  a  long  residence  in  Germany, 
his  ineffectual  attempts  to  play  the  English  country  gentleman, 
and  his  subsequent  complete  withdrawal  from  the  life  about 
him. 

You  have  no  idea  what  a  queer  sort  of  existence  he  lives  in 
that  huge  place,"  said  Eobert,  with  energy.  ^^He  is  not  un- 
popular exactly  with  the  poor  down  here.  When  they  want 
to  belabor  anybody  they  lay  on  at  the  agent,  Henslowe.  On 
the  whole,  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  the  poor  Uke  a  mys- 
tery. They  never  see  him ;  when  he  is  here  the  park  is  shut 
up;  the  common  report  is  that  he  walks  at  night;  and  he  hves 
alone  in  that  enormous  house  with  his  books.  The  country 
folk  have  all  quarreled  with  him,  or  nearly.  It  pleases  him  to 
get  a  few  of  th6  humbler  people  about,  clergy,  professional 
men,  and  so  on,  to  dine  with  him  sometimes.  And  he  often 
fiUs  the  Hall,  I  am  told,  with  London  people  for  a  day  or  two. 
But  otherwise  he  knows  no  one,  and  nobody  knows  him." 

*^  But  you  say  he  has  a  widowed  sister?  How  does  she  relish 
the  kind  of  life?" 

"  Oh,  by  all  accounts,"  said  the  rector,  with  a  shrug,  **sbe  is 
as  little  Uke  other  people  as  himself.   A  queer  elfish  little  creat- 


200 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


ore,  they  say,  as  fond  of  solitude  down  here  as  the  squire,  and 
full  of  hobbies.  In  her  youth  she  was  about  the  court.  Then 
she  married  a  canon  of  Warham,  one  of  the  popular  preach- 
ers, I  beheve,  of  the  day.  There  is  a  bright  little  cousin  of 
hers,  a  certain  Lady  Helen  Varley,  who  lives  near  here,  and 
tells  me  stories  of  her.  She  must  be  the  most  whimsical  little 
aristocrat  imaginable.  She  liked  her  husband  apparently,  but 
she  never  got  over  leaving  London  and  the  fashionable  world, 
and  is  as  hungry  now,  after  her  long  fast,  for  titles  and  big. 
wigs,  as  though  she  were  the  purest  parvenu.  The  squire  of 
course  makes  mock  of  her,  and  she  has  no  influence  with  him. 
Hov/ever,  4here  is  something  naive  in  the  stories  they  tell  of 
her!   I  feel  as  if  I  might  get  on  with  he7\    But  the  squire !" 

And  the  rector,  having  laid  down  his  pipe,  took  to  studying 
his  boots  with  a  certain  dolefulness. 

Langham,  however,  who  always  treated  the  subjects  of  con- 
versation presented  to  him  as  an  epicure  treats  foods,  felt  at 
this  point  that  he  had  had  enough  of  the  Wendovers,  and 
started  something  else. 

''So  you  physic  bodies  as  well  as  minds?"  he  said,  pointing 
to  the  medicine  cupboard. 

''I  should  think  sof  cried  Robert,  brightening  at  once. 
Last  winter  I  causticked  all  the  diphtheretic  throats  in  the 
place  with  my  own  hand.  Our  parish  doctor  is  an  infirm  old 
noodle,  and  I  just  had  to  do  it.  And  if  the  state  of  part  of  the 
parish  remains  what  it  is,  it's  a  pleasure  I  may  promise  my- 
seK  most  years.    But  it  shan't  remain  what  it  is." 

And  the  rector  reached  out  his  hand  again  for  his  pipe,  and 
gave  one  or  two  energetic  puffs  to  it  as  he  surveyed  his  friend 
stretched  before  him  in  the  depths  of  an  arm-chair. 

I  will  make  myself  a  public  nuisance,  but  the  people  shall 
have  their  drains !" 

*'It  seems  to  me,"  said  Langhorn,  musing  ''that  in  my 
youth  people  talked  about  Buskin;  now  they  talk  about 
drains." 

''And  quite  right  too.  Dirt  and  drains,  Catherine  says  I 
have  gone  mad  upon  them.  It's  all  very  well,  but  they  are  the 
foundations  of  a  sound  religion." 

"Dirt,  drains,  and  Darwin,"  said  Langham,  meditatively, 
taking  up  Darwin's  "Earthworms,"  which  lay  on  the  study- 
table  beside  him,  side  by  side  with  a  volume  of  Grant  Allen's 
"  sketches."    "  I  didn't  know  you  cared  for  this  sort  of  thing!" 


^01 


Robert  did  not  answer  for  a  moment,  and  a  faint  flush  stole 
into  his  face. 

"  Imagine,  Langham  !"  he  said,  presently,  had  never  read 
even  '  The  Origin  of  Species'  before  I  came  here.  We  used  to 
take  the  thing  half  for  granted,  I  remember,  at  Oxford,  in  a 
more  or  less  modified  sense.  But  to  drive  the  mind  through 
all  the  details  of  the  evidence,  to  force  one's  self  to  understand 
the  whole  hypothesis  and  the  grounds  for  it,  is  a  very  different 
matter.   It  is  a  revelation." 

*'Yes,"  saidLangham;  and  could  not  forbear  adding,  '*but 
it  is  a  revelation,  my  friend,  that  has  not  always  been  held  to 
square  with  other  revelations." 

In  general  these  two  kept  carefully  off  the  religious  ground. 
The  man  who  is  religious  by  nature  tends  to  keep  his  treasure 
hid  from  the  man  who  is  critical  by  nature,  and  Langham  was 
much  more  interested  in  other  things.  But  still  it  had  always 
been  understood  that  each  was  free  to  say  what  he  would. 

There  was  a  natural  panic,"  said  Robert,  throwing  back 
his  head  at  the  challenge.  ''Men  shrunk  and  will  always 
shrink,  say  what  you  will,  from  what  seems  to  touch  things 
dearer  to  them  than  life.  But  the  panic  is  passing.  The 
smoke  is  clearing  away,  and  we  see  that  the  battle-field  is  fall 
ing  into  new  lines.  But  the  old  truth  remains  the  same. 
Where  and  when  and  how  you  will,  but  somewhen  and  some- 
how, God  created  the  heavens  and  the  earth !" 

Langham  said  nothing.  It  had  seemed  to  him  for  long  that 
the  clergy  were  becoming  dangerously  ready  to  throw  the  Old 
Testament  overboard,  and  all  that  it  appeared  to  him  to  imply 
was  that  men's  logical  sense  is  easily  benumbed  where  their 
hearts  are  concerned. 

''Not  that  every  one  need  be  troubled  with  the  new  facts," 
resumed  Robert,  after  awhile,  going  back  to  his  pipe.  "Why 
should  they?  We  are  not  saved  by  Darwinism.  I  should 
never  press  them  on  my  wife,  for  instance,  with  all  her  clear- 
ness and  courage  of  mind." 

His  voice  altered  as  he  mentioned  his  wife— grew  extraordi- 
narily soft,  even  reverential. 

"It  would  distress  her?"  said  Langham,  interrogatively,  and 
inwardly  conscious  of  pursuing  investigations  begun  a  year 
before. 

"Yes,  it  would  distress  her.  She  hdlds  the  old  ideas  as  she 
was  taught  them.   It  is  all  beautiful  to  her.  what  may  seeor 


202 


KOBEET  ELSMEBE. 


doubtful  or  grotesque  to  others.  And  why  should  I  or  any  one 
else  trouble  her?  I  above  all,  who  am  not  fit  to  tie  her  shoe- 
strings." 

The  young  husband's  face  seemed  to  gleam  in  the  dim  Ught 
which  fell  upon  it.  Langham  involuntarily  put  up  his  hand  in 
silence  and  touched  his  sleeve.  Eobert  gave  him  a  quiet 
friendly  look,  and  the  two  men  instantly  plunged  into  some 
quite  trivial  and  commonplace  subject. 

Langham  entered  his  room  that  night  with  a  renewed  sense 
of  pleasure  in  the  country  quiet,  the  peaceful,  flower-scented 
house.  Catherine,  who  was  an  admirable  housewife,  had  put  out 
her  best  guest-sheets  for  his  benefit,  and  the  tutor,  accustomed 
for  long  years  to  the  second-best  of  college  service,  looked  at 
their  shining  surfaces  and  frilled  edges,  at  the  freshly  matted 
floor,  at  the  flowers  on  the  dressing-table,  at  the  spotlessness 
of  everything  in  the  room,  with  a  distinct  sense  that  matri- 
mony had  its  advantages.  He  had  come  down  to  visit  the 
Elsmeres,  sustained  by  a  considerable  sense  of  virtue.  He 
still  loved  Elsmere,  and  cared  to  see  him.  It  was  a  much 
colder  love,  no  doubt,  than  that  which  he  had  given  to  the 
undergraduate.  But  the  man  altogether  was  a  colder  creature, 
who  for  years  had  been  drawing  in  tentacle  after  tentacle,  and 
becoming  more  and  more  content  to  live  without  his  kind. 
Robert's  parsonage,  however,  and  Robert's  wife  had  no  attrac- 
tions for  him  ;  and  it  was  with  an  effort  that  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  accept  the  invitation  which  Catherine  had  made 
an  effort  to  write. 

And,  after  all,  the  experience  promised  to  be  pleasant.  His 
fastidious  love  for  the  quieter,  subtler  sorts  of  beauty  was 
touched  by  the  Elsmere  surroundings.  And  whatever  Miss 
Ley  bum  might  be,  she  was  not  commonplace.  The  demon  of 
convention  had  no  large  part  ill  her !  Langham  lay  awake  for 
a  time  analyzing  his  impressions  of  her  with  some  gusto,  and 
meditating,  with  a  whimsical  candor  which  seldom  failed  him, 
on  the  manner  in  which  she  had  trampled  on  him,  and  the 
reasons  why. 

He  woke  up,  however,  in  a  totally  different  frame  of  mind. 
He  was  pre-eminently  a  person  of  moods,  dependent,  probably, 
as  all  moods  are,  on  certain  obscure  physical  variations.  And 
his  mental  temperature  had  run  down  in  the  night.  The  house, 
the  people  who  had  been  fresh  and  interesting  to  him  twelve 
hours  before,  were  now  the  bjirden  he  had  more  than  half  ex- 


BOBERT  EISMERE. 


203 


pected  them  to  be.  He  lay  and  thought  of  the  unbroken  soli- 
tude of  his  college  rooms,  of  Senancour's  flight  from  human 
kind,  of  the  uselessness  of  all  friendship,  the  absurdity  of  all 
effort,  and  could  hardly  persuade  himself  to  get  up  and  face  a 
futne  world,  which  had,  moreover,  the  enormous  disadvantage 
for  the  moment  of  being  a  new  one. 

Convention,  however,  is  master  even  of  an  Obermann.  That 
prototype  of  all  the^  disillusioned  had  to  cut  himself  adrift 
from  the  society  of  the  eagles  on  the  Dent  du  Midi,  to  go  and 
hang  like  any  other  ridiculous  mortal  on  the  Paris  law  courts. 
Langham,  whether  he  liked  it  or  no,  had  to  face  the  parsonic 
breakfast  and  the  parsonic  day. 

He  had  just  finished  dressing  when  the  sound  of  a  girl's 
voice  drew  him  to  the  window,  which  was  open.  In  the  garden 
stood  Eose,  on  the  edge  of  the  sunk  fence  dividing  the  rectory 
domain  from  the  corn-field.  She  was  stooping  forward  playing 
with  Eobert's  Dandie  Dinmont.  In  one  hand  she  held  a  mass 
of  poppies,  which  showed  a  vivid  scarlet  against  her  blue  dress ; 
the  other  was  stretched  out  seductively  to  the  dog  leaping 
round  her.  A  crystal  buckle  flashed  at  her  waist;  the  sun- 
shine caught  the  curls  of  auburn  hair,  the  pink  cheek,  the 
white  moving  hand,  the  lace  ruflies  at  her  throat  and  wrist. 
The  lithe,  glittering  figure  stood  thrown  out  against  the  heavy 
woods  behind,  the  gold  of  the  corn-field,  the  blues  of  the  dis- 
tance. All  the  gayety  and  color  which  is  as  truly  representa- 
tive of  autumn  as  the  gray  languor  of  a  September  mist  had 
passed  into  it, 

Langham  stood  and  watched,  hidden,  as  he  thought,  by  the 
curtain,  till  a  gust  of  wind  shook  the  casement  window  beside 
him,  and  threatened  to  blow  it  in  upon  him.  He  put  out  his 
hand  perforce  to  save  it,  and  the  slight  noise  caught  Eose's 
ear.  She  looked  up ;  her  smile  vanished.  ' '  Go  down,  Dandie, 
she  said,  severely,  and  walked  quickly  into  the  house  with 
as  much  dignity  as  nineteen  is  capable  of. 

At  breakfast  the  Elsmeres  found  their  guest  a  difficulty. 
But  they  also,  as  we  know,  had  expected  it.  He  was  languor 
itself ;  none  of  their  conversational  efforts  succeeded ;  and  Eose, 
studying  him  out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes,  felt  that  it  would 
be  of  no  use  even  to  torment  so  strange  and  impenetrable  a 
being.  Why  on  earth  should  people  come  and  visit  theii 
friends  if  they  could  not  keep  up  even  the  ordinary  decent  pre 
tenses  of  society? 


204 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


Eobert  had  to  go  off  to  some  clerical  business  afterward,  and^ 
Langham  wandered  out  into  the  garden  by  himself.  As  ka* 
thought  of  his  Greek  texts  and  his  untenanted  Oxford  rooms,: 
he  had  the  same  sort  of  craving  that  an  opium-eater  has  cut  off  ' 
from  his  drugs.    How  was  he  to  get  through? 

Presently  he  walked  back  into  the  study,  secured  an  armfull 
of  volumes,  and  carried  them  out.  True  to  himself  in  the- 
smallest  things,  he  could  never  in  his  itf e  be  content  with  the^ 
companionship  of  one  book.  To  cut  off  the  possibihty  of  choice 
and  change  in  anything  whatever  was  repugnant  to  him. 

He  sat  himself  down  under  the  shade  of  a  great  chestnut! 
near  the  house,  and  an  hour  glided  pleasantly  away.    As  iti 
happened,  however,  he  did  not  open  one  of  the  books  he  had! 
brought  with  him.    A  thought  had  struck  him  as  he  sat  down, 
and  he  went  groping  in  his  pockets  in  search  of  a  yellow-covered  , 
brochure,  which,  when  found,  proved  to  be  a  new  play  by 
Dumas,  just  about  to  be  produced  by  a  French  company  in 
London.   Langham,  whose  passion  for  the  French  theater 
supplied  him,  as  we  know,  with  a  great  deal  of  life  without  the 
trouble  of  living,  was  going  to  see  it,  and  always  made  a  point 
of  reading  the  piece  beforehand. 

The  play  turned  upon  a  typical  French  situation,  treated  in 
a  manner  rather  more  French  than  usual.  The  reader  shrugged  1 
his  shoulders  a  good  deal  as  he  read  on.    ''Strange  nation !"  he  ' 
muttered  to  himself  after  an  act  or  two.    ''  How  they  do  revel 
in  mud !" 

Presently,  just  as  the  fifth  act  wa«  beginning  to  get  hold  of 
him  with  that  force  which,  after  all,  only  a  French  playwright 
is  master  of,  he  looked  up  and  saw  the  two  sisters  coming  round 
the  corner  of  the  house  from  the  great  kitchen  garden,  which  i 
stretched  its  grass  paths  and  tangled  flower-masses  down  the 
further  slope  of  the  hill.  The  transition  was  sharp  from 
Dumas's  heated  atmosphere  of  passion  and  crime  to  the  quiet 
Enghsh  rectory,  its  rural  surroundings,  and  the  figures  of  the 
two  English  women  advancing  toward  him. 

Catherine  was  in  a  loose  white  dress,  with  a  black  lace  scarf 
draped  about  her  head  and  form.  Her  look  hardly  suggested 
youth,  and  there  was  certainly  no  touch  of  age  in  it.  Eipe- 
ness,  maturity,  serenity— these  were  the  chief  ideas  which 
seemed  to  rise  in  the  mind  at  sight  of  her. 

''Are  you  amusing  yourself,  Mr.  Langham?"  she  said,  stiT 


ROBEBT  BLSMEEB. 


205 


''imgbesidehim  and  retaining  with  slight  imperceptible  force 
"  Rose's  hand,  which  threatened  to  slip  away. 

"Very  much.  I  have  been  skimming  through  a  play,  which 
I  hope  to  see  next  week,  by  way  of  preparation." 

Rose  turned  involuntarily.  Not  wishing  to  discuss  "  Man- 
lanne"  with  either  Catherine  or  her  sister,  Langham  had  just 
closed  the  book  and  was  returning  it  to  his  pocket.  But  she 
had  caught  sight  of  it.  ux 

"You  are  reading  'Marianne,'  "  she  exclaimed,  the  shght- 
lest  possible  touch  of  wonder  in  her  tone. 

"Yes,  it  is  'Marianne,'"  said  Langham,  surprised  in  his 
turn.  He  had  very  old-fashioned  notions  about  the  limits  of  a 
girl's  acquaintance  with  the  world,  knowing  nothing,  therefore, 
las  may  be  supposed,  about  the  modern  young  woman,  and  he 
'<  was  a  trifle  scandalized  by  Eose's  accent  of  knowledge. 
'  "  I  read  it  last  week,"  she  said,  carelessly ;  "  and  the  Piersons 
—turning  to  her  sister— "have  promised  to  take  me  to  see  it 
next  winter  if  Desforets  comes  again,  as  everyone  expects." 

' '  Who  wrote  it  ?"  asked  Catherine,  innocently.  The  theater 
not  only  gave  her  little  pleasure,  but  wounded  in  her  a  hundred 
deep,  unconquerable  instincts.  But  she  had  long  ago  given  up 
in  despair  the  hope  of  protesting  against  Rose's  dramatic  in- 
stincts with  success.  .  •  i 

"  Dumas  >iZs,"  said  Langham,  dryly.  He  was  distinctly  a 
good  deal  astonished. 

Rose  looked  at  him,  and  something  brought  a  sudden  flame 
into  her  cheek. 

"  It  is  one  of  the  best  of  his,"  she  said,  defiantly.  I  have 
teadagood  many  others.  Mrs.  Pierson  lent  me  a  volume. 
And  when  I  was  introduced  to  Madame  Desforets  last  week, 
ehe  agreed  with  me  that  '  Marianne '  is  nearly  the  best  of  aU. 

All  this  of  course,  with  the  delicate  nose  well  in  air. 

"You  were  introduced  to  Madame  Desforets?"  cried  Lang- 
ham, surprised  this  time  quite  out  of  discretion.  Catherme 
looked  at  him  with  anxiety.  The  reputation  of  the  black-eyed 
Uttle  French  actress,  who  had  been  for  a  year  or  two  the  idol  ot 
the  theatrical  pubhc  of  Paris  and  London,  had  reached  even  to 
her,  and  the  tone  of  Langham's  exclamation  struck  her  pam- 

was," said  Robe,  proudly.   "Other  people  may  think  it 
a  disgrace,   /thought  it  an  honor!" 
I^nghftm  coHld  not  help  smilmg,  the  girl's  naivete  was  so 


206  EOBEET  ELSMESE.  m 

evident.  It  was  clear  that,  if  she  had  read  Marianne,"  she  1 
had  never  undei'stood  it.  5 

''Rose,  you  don't 'know!"  exclaimed  Catherine,  turning  to  | 
her  sister  with  a  sudden  trouble  in  her  eyes.        don't  think  - 
Mrs.  Pierson  ought  to  have  done  that  without  consulting  mam- 
ma especially. " 

''Why  not?"  cried  Rose,  vehemently.   Her  face  was  buru' 
ing  and  her  heart  was  full  of  something  like  hatred  of  Lang^  > 
ham,  but  she  tried  hard  to  be  calm. 

"  I  think,"  she  said,  with  a  desperate  attempt  at  crursliing  dig- 
nity,  "that  the  way  in  which  all  sorts  of  stories  are  beheved 
against  a  woman,  just  because  she  is  an  actress,  is  disgraceful ) 
Just  because  a  woman  is  on  the  stage,  everybody  thinks  they 
may  throw  stones  at  her.  I  Jcnoiv,  because— because  she  told 
me,"  cried  the  speaker,  growing,  however,  half  embarrassed  as  - 
she  spoke,  ' '  that  she  feels  the  things  that  are  said  of  her  deeply !  ^ 
She  has  been  ill,  very  ill,  and  one  of  her  friends  said  to  me, 
'  You  know  it  isn't  her  work,  or  a  cold,  or  anything  else  that's 
made  her  ill — it's  calumny  I'   And  so  it  is." 

The  speaker  flashed  an  angry  glance  at  Langham.  She  was 
sitting  on  the  arm  of  the  cane  chair  into  which  Catherine  had 
fallen,  one  hand  grasping  the  back  of  the  chair  for  support, 
one  pointed  foot  beating  the  ground  restlessly  in  front  of  her, 
her  smaU  full  mouth  pursed  indignantly,  the  gi^eenish-gray 
eyes  flashing  and  brilliant. 

As  for  Langham,  the  cynic  within  him  was  on  the  point  of 
uncontrollable  laughter.  Mme.  Desforets  complaining  of  cal- 
umny  to  this  little  Westmoreland  maiden !  But  his  eyes  invol- 
untarily met  Catherine's,  and  the  expression  of  both  fused  into 
a  common  wonderment — amused  on  his  side,  anxious  on  hers. 
"  What  a  chQd,  what  an  infant  it  is!"  they  seemed  to  confide 
to  one  another.  Catherine  laid  her  hand  softly  on  Rose's,  and 
was  about  to  say  something  soothing,  which  might  secure  her 
an  opening  for  some  sisterly  advice  later  on,  when  there  was  a 
sound  of  calling  from  the  gate.  She  looked  up  and  saw  Robert 
waving  to  her.  Evidently  he  had  just  nm  up  from  the  school 
to  deliver  a  message.  She  hurried  across  the  drive  to  him  and 
afterward  into  the  house,  while  he  disappeared. 

Rose  got  up  from  her  perch  on  the  arm-chair  and  would 
have  followed,  but  a  moment  of  obstinacy  or  quixotic  wrath,  ^ 
or  both,  detained  her. 

"At  any  rate,  Mr.  Langham,"  she  said,  drawing  herself  up, 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


207 


and  speaking  with  the  most  lofty  accent,  if  you  don't  know 
anything  personally  about  Madame  Desf orets,  I  think  it  would 
be  much  fairer  to  say  nothing— and  not  to  assume  at  once  that 
all  you  hear  is  true !" 

Langham  had  rarely  felt  more  awkward  than  he  did  then,  as 
he  sat  leaning  forward  under  the  tree,  this  shm,  indignant 
creature  standing  over  him,  and  his  consciousness  about  equally 
divided  between  a  sense  of  her  absurdity  and  a  sense  of  her 
prettiness. 

^'  You  are  an  advocate  worth  having,  Miss  Leyburn,"  he  said 
at  last,  an  enigmatical  smile  he  could  not  restrain  playing  about 
his  mouth.  '^I  could  not  argue  with  you;  I  had  better  not 
try." 

Rose  looked  at  him,  at  his  dark  regular  face,  at  the  black  eyes 
which  were  much  vivider  than  usual,  perhaps  because  they 
could  not  help  reflecting  some  of  the  irrepressible  memories  of 
Mme.  Desf  orets  and  her  causes  celehres  which  were  coursing 
through  the  brain  behind  them,  and  with  a  momentary  im- 
pression of  rawness,  defeat,  and  yet  involuntary  attraction, 
which  galled  her  intolerably,  she  turned  away  and  left  him. 

In  the  afternoon,  Robert  was  still  unavailable,  to  his  own 
great  chagrin,  and  Langham  summoned  up  all  his  resignation 
and  walked  with  the  ladies.  The  general  impression  left  upon 
his  mind  by  the  performance  was,  first,  that  the  dust  of  an 
English  August  is  intolerable,  and,  secondly,  that  women's  so- 
ciety ought  only  to  be  ventured  on  by  the  men  who  are  made 
for  it.  The  views  of  Catherine  and  Rose  may  be  deduced  from 
his  with  tolerable  certainty. 

But  in  the  late  afternoon,  when  they  thought  they  had  done 
their  duty  by  him,  and  he  was  again  alone  in  the  garden  read- 
ing, he  suddenly  heard  the  sounds  of  music. 

Who  was  playing,  and  in  that  way  ?  He  got  up  and  strolled 
past  the  drawing-room  window  to  find  out. 

Rose  had  got  hold  of  an  accompanist,  the  timid  dowdy  daugh- 
ter of  a  local  soHcitor,  with  some  capacity'  for  reading,  and  was 
now,  in  her  lavish,  impetuous  fashion,  rushing  through  a  quan- 
tity of  new  music,  the  accumulations  of  her  visit  to  London. 
She  stood  up  beside  the  piano,  her  hair  gleaming  in  the  shadow 
of  the  drawing-room,  her  white  brow  hanging  forward  over  her 
violin  as  she  peered  her  way  through  the  music,  her  whole  soul 
absorbed  in  what  she  was  doing.   Langham  passed  unnoticed. 


208 


ROBERT  ELSMERB. 


What  astonishing  playing!  Why  had  no  one  warned  him  oi 
the  presence  of  such  a  gift  in  this  dazzling,  prickly,  unripe 
creature?  He  sat  down  against  the  wall  of  the  house,  as  close  as 
possible,  but  out  of  sight,  and  listened.  All  the  romance  of  his 
^spoiled  and  solitary  life  had  come  to  him  so  far  through  music, 
^and  through  such  music  as  this !  For  she  was  playing  Wagner, 
Brahms,  and  Eubinstein,  interpreting  all  those  passionate  voices 
^f  the  subtlest  moderns,  through  which  the  heart  of  our  own 
day  has  expressed  itself  even  more  freely  and  exactly  than 
ijhrough  the  voice  of  hterature.  Hans  Sachs's  immortal  song, 
echoes  from  the  love  duets  in  Tristan  and  Isolde,''  fragments 
from  a  wild  and  alien  dance-music,  they  rippled  over  him  in  a 
warm  intoxicating  stream  of  sound,  stirring  association  after 
association,  and  rousing  from  sleep  a  hundred  by-gone  moods 
of  f eehng. 

What  magic  and  mastery  in  the  girl's  touch!  What  power 
of  divination,  and  of  rendering!  Ah !  she  too  was  floating  in 
passion  and  romance,  but  of  a  different  sort  altogether  from 
the  conscious  reflected  product  of  the  man's  nature.  She  was 
not  thinking  of  the  past,  but  of  the  future;  she  was  weaving 
her  story  that  was  to  be  into  the  flying  notes,  playing  to  the 
unknown  of  her  Whindale  dreams,  the  strong  ardent  unknown 
—  insufferable,  if  he  pleases,  to  all  the  world  besides,  but  to 
me  heaven !"  She  had  caught  no  breath  yet  of  his  coming,  but 
her  heart  was  ready  for  him. 

Suddenly,  as  she  put  down  her  violin,  the  French  window 
opened,  and  Langham  stood  before  her.  She  looked  at  him 
with  a  quick  stiffening  of  the  face  which  a  minute  before  had 
been  all  quivering  and  relaxed,  and  his  instant  perception  of  it 
chilled  the  impulse  which  had  brought  him  there. 

He  said  something  banal  about  his  enjoyment,  something 
totally  different  from  what  he  had  meant  to  say.  The  moment 
presented  itself,  but  he  could  not  seize  it  or  her. 

'^I  had  no  notion  you  cared  for  music,"  she  said,  carelessly, 
as  she  shut  the  piano,  and  then  she  went  away. 

Langham  felt  a  strange  fierce  pang  of  disappointment.  What 
had  he  meant  to  do  or  say?  Idiot!  What  common  ground 
was  there  between  him  and  any  such  exquisite  youth  ?  What 
girl  would  ever  see  in  him  anything  but  the  dull  remains  of 
what  once  had  been  a  man  I 


CHAPTER  Xin, 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  Langham,  who  was  as  depressed 
and  homesick  as  ever,  with  a  certain  new  spice  of  restlessness, 
not  altogether  intelligible  to  himself,  thrown  in,  could  only 
brace  himself  to  the  prospect  by  the  determination  to  take  the 
English  rural  Sunday  as  the  subject  of  severe  scientific  investi- 
gation.  He  would  * '  do  it "  thoroughly. 

So  he  donned  a  black  coat  and  went  to  church  with  the  rest. 
There,  in  spite  of  his  boredom  with  the  whole  proceeding,  Eob- 
ert's  old  tutor  was  a  good  deal  more  interested  by  Robert's  ser- 
mon than  he  had  expected  to  be.  It  was  on  the  character  of 
David,  and  there  was  a  note  in  it,  a  note  of  historical  imagina- 
tion, a  power  of  sketching  in  a  background  of  circumstance, 
and  of  biting  into  the  mind  of  the  Ustener,  as  it  were,  by  a  de- 
tail or  an  epithet,  which  struck  Langham  as  something  new  in 
his  experience  of  Elsmere.  He  followed  it  at  first  as  one  might 
watch  a  game  of  skill,  enjoying  the  intellectual  form  of  it,  and 
counting  the  good  points,  but  by  the  end  he  was  not  a  little 
carried  away.  The  peroration  was  undoubtedly  very  moving, 
very  intimate,  very  modern,  and  Langham  up  to  a  certain 
point  was  extremely  susceptible  to  oratory,  as  he  was  to  music 
and  acting.  The  critical  judgment,  however,  at  the  root  of 
him  kept  coolly  repeating,  as  he  stood  watching  the  people  de- 
file out  of  the  church:  This  sort  of  thing  wiU  go  down,  will 
make  a  mark:  Elsmere  is  at  the  beginning  of  a  career !" 

In  the  afternoon  Robert,  who  was  feeling  deeply  guilty  toward 
his  wife,  in  that  he  had  been  forced  to  leave  so  much  of  the  en- 
tertainment of  Langham  to  her,  asked  his  old  friend  to  come 
for  him  to  the  school  at  four  o'clock  and  take  him  for  a  walk 
between  two  engagements.  Langham  was  punctual,  and  Rob- 
ert carried  him  off  first  to  see  the  Sunday  cricket,  which  was  in 
full  swing.  During  the  past  year  the  young  rector  had  been 
developing  a  number  of  out-door  capacities  which  were  prob- 
ably always  dormant  in  his  Elsmere  blood,  the  blood  of  gene- 
rations of  country  gentlemen,  but  which  had  never  had  full 
opportunity  before.  He  talked  of  fishing  as  Kingsley  might 
have  talked  of  it,  and,  indeed,  with  constant  quotations  from 
Kingsley ;  and  his  cricket,  which  had  been  good  enough  at  Ox- 
ford to  get  him  into  his  college  eleven,  had  stood  him  in  speci- 
ally good  stead  with  the  Mure  well  villagers.  That  his  play  was 
not  elegant  they  were  not  likely  to  find  out;  his  bowling  they 


210 


KOBERT  ELSMERE, 


set  small  store  by ;  but  his  batting  was  of  a  fine,  slashing,  supe- 
rior sort  which  soon  carried  the  Murewell  Club  to  a  much  higher 
position  among  the  clubs  of  the  neighborhood  than  it  had  ever 
yet  aspired  to  occupy. 

The  rector  had  no  time  to  play  on  Sundays,  however,  and, 
after  they  had  hung  about  the  green  a  little  while,  he  took  his 
friend  over  to  the  Workmen's  Institute,  which  stood  at  the  edge 
of  it.  He  explained  that  the  institute  had  been  the  last  achieve- 
ment of  the  agent  before  Henslowe,  a  man  who  had  done  his 
duty  to  the  estate  according  to  his  Hghts,  and  to  whom  it  was 
owing  that  those  parts  of  it,  at  any  rate,  which  were  most  in 
the  public  eye,  were  still  in  fair  condition. 

The  institute  was  now  in  bad  repair  and  too  small  for  the 
place.  * '  But  catch  that  man  doing  anything  for  us !"  exclaimed 
Robert,  hotly.  ''He  will  hardly  mend  the  roof  now,  merely, 
I  believe,  to  spite  me.  But  come  and  see  my  new  Naturalists' 
aub." 

And  he  opened  the  institute  door.  Langham  followed  in 
the  temper  of  one  getting  up  a  subject  for  examination. 

Poor  Eobert !  His  labor  and  his  enthusiasm  deserved  a  more 
appreciative  eye.  He  was  wrapped  up  in  his  club,  which  had 
been  the  great  success  of  his  first  year,  and  he  dragged  Lang- 
ham  through  it  all,  not,  indeed,  sympathetic  creature  that  he 
was,  without  occasional  qualms.  ' '  But  after  all, "  he  would  say 
to  himself,  indignantly,  ''I must  do  something  with  him." 

Langham,  indeed,  behaved  with  resignation.  He  looked  at  the 
collections  for  the  year,  and  was  quite  ready  to  take  it  for 
gi^anted  that  they  were  extremely  creditable.  Into  the  old- 
fashioned  window-sills  glazed  compartments  had  been  fitted, 
and  these  were  now  fairly  filled  with  specimens,  with  eggs,  but- 
terflies, moths,  beetles,  fossils,  and  whatnot.  A' case  of  stuffed 
tropical  bii^ds  presented  by  Robert  stood  in  the  center  of  the 
room  ;  another  containing  the  birds  of  the  district  was  close  by. 
On  a  table  further  on  stood  two  large  open  books,  which  served 
as  records  of  observations  on  the  part  of  members  of  the  club. 
In  one,  which  was  scrawled  over  with  mysterious  hieroglyphs, 
any  one  might  write  what  he  would.  In  the  other,  only  such 
facts  and  remarks  as  had  passed  the  gauntlet  of  a  club  meeting 
were  recorded  in  Robert's  neatest  hand.  On  the  same  table 
stood  jars  full  of  strange  creatures— tadpoles  and  water  larvae 
of  all  kinds,  over  which  Robert  hung  now  absorbed,  poking 
among  them  with  a  straw,  while  Langham,  to  whom  only  the 


ROBERT  ELSMESE. 


211 


generalizations  of  science  were  congenial,  stood  by  and  mildly- 
scoffed. 

As  they  came  out  a  great  loutish  boy,  who  had  evidently 
been  hanging  about  waiting  for  the  rector,  came  up  to  him, 
boorishly  touched  his  cap,  and  then,  taking  a  cardboard  box 
out  of  his  pocket,  opened  it  with  infinite  caution,  something 
Uke  a  tremor  of  emo^on  passing  over  his  gnarled  counte- 
nance. 

The  rector's  eyes  glistened. 
Halloo  !  I  say,  Irwin,  where  in  the  name  of  fortune  did 
you  get  that  ?  You  lucky  fellow  !  Come  in,  and  let's  look  it 
out  !" 

And  the  two  plunged  back  into  the  club  together,  leaving 
Langham  to  the  philosophic  and  patient  contemplation  of  the 
village  green,  its  geese,  its  donkeys,  and  its  surrounding  fringe 
of  houses.  He  felt  that  quite  indisputably  life  would  have  been 
better  worth  living  if ,  like  Eobert,  he  could  have  taken  pas- 
sionate interest  in  rare  moths  or  common  plowboys ;  but  Na- 
ture having  denied  him  the  possibility,  there  was  small  use  in 
grumbling. 

Presently  the  two  naturalists  came  out  again,  and  the  boy 
went  off,  bearing  his  treasure  with  him. 

Lucky  dog  I"  said  Eobert,  turning  his  friend  into  a  country 
road  leading  out  of  the  village,  ''he's  found  ore  of  the  rarest 
moths  of  the  district.  Such  a  hero  he'll  be  in  the  oiub  to-mor- 
row night.  It's  extraordinary  what  a  rational  interest  has 
done  for  that  fellow  I  I  nearly  fought  him  in  public  last  win- 
ter." 

And  he  turned  to  his  friend  with  a  laugh,  and  yet  with  a 
little  quick  look  of  feeling  in  the  gray  eyes. 

''Magnificent,  but  not  war,"  said  Langham,  dryly.  "I 
wouldn't  have  given  much  for  your  chances  against  those 
shoulders." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  should  have  had  a  little  science  on  my 
side,  which  counts  for  a  great  deal.  We  turned  him  out  of  th^ 
club  for  brutality  toward  the  old  grandmother  he  lives  with— 
turned  him  out  in  public.  Such  a  scene  !  I  shall  never  forget 
the  boy's  face.  It  was  Hke  a  corpse,  and  the  eyes  burning  out 
of  it.  He  made  for  me,  but  the  others  closed  up  round,  and 
we  got  him  put  out." 
'^  Hard  lines  on  the  grandmother,"  remarked  Langham. 
"  She  thought  so—poor  old  thing  1   She  left  her  cottage  that 


212 


ROBERT  EtSMElllS. 


night,  thinking  he  would  murder  her,  and  went  to  a  friend.  At 
the  end  of  a  week  he  came  into  the  friend's  house,  where  shoei 
was  alone  in  bed.  She  cowered  under  the  bedclothes,  she  told 
me,  expecting  him  to  strike  her.  Instead  of  which  he  threw  his 
wages  down  beside  her  and  gruffly  invited  her  to  come  home. 
'  He  wouldn't  do  her  no  mischief.'  Everybody  dissuaded  her 
but  the  plucky  old  thing  went.  A  ^ek  or  two  afterward  she 
sent  for  me  and  I  found  her  crying.  She  was  sure  the  lad  was 
ill,  he  spoke  to  nobody  at  his  work.  '  Lord,  sir  T  she  said,  '  it 
do  remind  me,  when  he  sits  glowering  at  nights,  of  those  folks 
in  the  Bible,  when  the  devils  inside  'em  kep'  a-tearing  'em.  But 
he's  like  a  new-born  babe  to  me,  sir — never  does  me  no 
'arm.  And  it  do  go  to  my  heart,  sir,  to  see  how*  poorly  he  do 
take  his  vittles  !'  So  I  made  tracks  for  that  lad,"  said  Eobert, 
his  eyes  kindling,  his  whole  frame  dilating.  found  him  in 
the  fields  one  morning.  I  have  seldom  lived  through  so  much 
in  half  an  hour.  In  the  evening  I  walked  him  up  to  the  club, 
and  we  readmitted  him,  and  since  then  the  boy  has  been  lik^ 
one  clothed  and  in  his  right  mind.  If  there  is  any  trouble  in 
in  the  club  I  set  him  on,  and  he  generally  puts  it  right.  And 
when  I  was  laid  up  with  a  chill  in  the  spring,  and  the  poor  fel* 
low  came  trudging  up  every  night  after  his  work  to  ask  foi- 
me— well,  never  mind  !  but  it  gives  one  a  good  glow  at  one's 
heart  to  ^ink  about  it." 

The  speaker  threw  back  his  head  impulsively,  as  though  de- 
fying his  own  feeling.   Langham  looked  at  him  curiously.   The  \ 
pastoral  temper  was  a  novelty  to  him,  and  the  strong  develop- 
ment of  it  in  the  undergraduate  of  his  Oxford  recollections  had 
its  interest. 

A  quarter  to  six,"  said  Robert,  as  on  their  return  from 
their  walk  they  were  descending  a  low- wooded  hill  above  the 
village,  and  the  church  clock  rung  out,  "I  must  hurry,  or  I 
shall  be  late  for  my  story-telling." 

Story-telling!"  said  Langham,  with  a  half -exasperated 
shrug.  What  next?  You  clergy  are  too  inventive  by  half  I" 
Eobert  laughed  a  trifle  bitterly. 

**I  can't  congratulate  you  on  your  epithets,"  he  said,  thrust- 
ing his  hands  far  into  his  pockets.  "  Good  heavens,  if  we  were' 
— ^if  we  were  inventive  as  a  body,  the  Church  wouldn't  be  where 
she  is  in  the  rural  districts!  My  story-telhng  is  the  simplest « 
thing  in  the  world.  I  began  it  in  the  winter  with  the  object  of 
somehow  or  other  gettmg  at  the  imagination  of  these  rustics. 


EGBERT  JELSMEEB. 


213 


Force;  them  for  only  half  an  hour  to  live  some  one  else's  life— 
t  is  the  one  thing  worth  doing  with  them.  That's  what  I  have 
jeen  aiming  at.  I  told  my  stories  all  the  winter— Shakespeare, 
Don  Quixote,  Dumas— Heaven  knows  what!  And  on  the 
wrhole  it  answers  best.  But  now  we  are  reading  *  The  Talis- 
nan.'  Come  and  inspect  us,  unless  you're  a  purist  about  your 
3cott !  None  other  of  the  Immortals  have  such  tbngueurs  as 
lie,  and  we  cut  him  freely." 

*'By  all  means,"  said  Langham;  ''lead  on."  And  he  fol- 
lowed his  companion  without  repugnance.  After  all  there  was 
something  contagious  in  so  much  youth,  and  hopefulness. 

The  story-telling  was  held  in  the  institute. 

A  group  of  men  and  boys  were  hanging  round  the  door  when 
jbhey  reached  it.  The  two  friends  made  their  way  through, 
greeted  in  the  dumb,  friendly  English  fashion  on  all  sides,  and 
Langham  found  himself  in  a  room  half  filled  with  boys  and 
youths,  a  few  grown  men,  who  had  just  put  their  pipes  out, 
lounging  at  the  back. 

Langham  not  only  endured,  but  enjoyed  the  first  part  of  the 
hour  that  followed.   Robert  was  an  admirable  reader,  as  most 
enthusiastic  imaginative  people  are.   He  was  a  master  of  all 
ithose  arts  of  look  and  gesture  which  make  a  spoken  story  tell- 
ing and  dramatic,  and  Langham  marveled  with  what  energy, 
after  his  hard  day's  work  and  with  another  service  before  him, 
ihe  was  able  to  throw  himself  into  such  a  hors  d'oeuvre  as  this. 
He  was  reading  to-night  one  of  the  most  perfect  scenes  that  even 
the  Wizard  of  the  North  has  ever  conjured :  the  scene  in  the  tent 
of  Richard  Lion-Heart,  when  the  disguised  slave  saves  the  hfe 
lof  the  king,  and  Richard  first  suspects  his  identity.  As  he  read 
Ion,  his  arms  resting  on  the  high  desk  in  front  of  him,  and  his 
eyes,  full  of  infectious  enjoyment,  traveling  from  the  book  to 
his  audience,  surrounded  by  human  bemgs  whose  confidence  he 
had  won,  and  whose  lives  he  was  brightening  from  day  to  day, 
he  seemed  to  Langham  the  very  type  and  model  of  a  man  who 
I  had  found  his  metier,  found  his  niche  in  the  world,  and  the  best 
! means  of  filling  it.   If  to  attain  to  an  ''adequate  and  masterly 
i-expression  of  one's  self"  be  the  aim  of  life,  Robert  was  fast 
achieving  it.  This  parish  of  twelve  hundred  souls  gave  him  now 
I  all  the  scope  he  asked.   It  was  evident  that  he  felt  his  work  to 
I  be  rather  above  than  below  his  deserts.   He  was  content— more 
than  content— to  spend  ability  which  would  have  distinguished 
him  in  public  life,  or  carried  him  far  to  the  front  in  literature. 


214 


KOBERT  ELSMERB. 


on  the  civilizing  of  a  few  hundred  of  England's  rural  poor.  The 
future  might  bring  him  worldly  success — Langham  thought  it 
must  and  would.  Clergymen  of  Robert's  stamp  are  rare  among 
us.  But  if  so^  it  would  be  in  response  to  no  conscious  effort  of 
his.  'Here  in  the  country  living  he  had  so  long  dreaded  and 
put  from  him,  lest  it  should  tax  his  young  energies  too  hghtly, 
he  was  happy— deeply  abundantly  happy,  at  peace  with  God, 
at  one  with  man. 

Happy  !  Langham,  sitting  at  the  outer  corner  of  one  of  the 
benches,  by  the  open  door,  gradually  ceased  to  listen,  started 
on  other  lines  of  thought  by  this  realization,  warm,  stimulat- 
ing, provocative,  of  another  man's  happiness. 

Outside  the  shadows  lengthened  across  the  green ;  groups  of 
distant  children  or  animals  passed  in  and  out  of  the  golden 
light-spaces;  the  patches  of  heather  left  here  and  there  glowed 
as  the  sunset  touched  them.  Every  now  and  then  his  eye 
traveled  vaguely  past  a  cottage  garden,  gay  with  the  pinks  and 
carmines  of  the  phloxes,  into  the  cool  browns  and  bluish -grays 
of  the  raftered  room  beyond ;  babies  toddled  across  the  road, 
with  stooping  mothers  in  their  train ;  the  whole  air  and  scene 
seemed  to  be  suffused  with  suggestions  of  the  pathetic  expans- 
iveness  and  helplessness  of  human  existence,  which,  generation 
after  generation,  is  still  so  vulnerable,  so  confiding,  so  eager. 
Life  after  life  flowers  out  from  the  darkness  and  sinks  back  into 
it  again.  And  in  the  interval  what  agony,  what  disillusion !  All 
the  apparatus  of  a  universe  that  men  may  know  what  it  is  to 
hope  and  fail,  to  win  and  lose!  Happy !— in.  this  world, 
''where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan."  His  friend's  con- 
fidence only  made  Langham  as  melancholy  as  Job. 

What  was  it  based  on?  In  the  first  place,  on  Ofiristianity— 
''on  the  passionate  acceptance  of  an  exquisite  fairy  tale,"  said 
the  dreaming  spectator  to  himself,  "  which  at  the  first  honest 
challenge  of  the  critical  sense  withers  in  our  grasp !  That 
Elsmere  has  never  given  it,  and  in  all  probability  never  will. 
No!  A  man  sees  none  the  straighter  for  having  a  wife  he 
adores,  and  a  profession  that  suits  him,  between  him  and  un- 
pleasant facts !" 

,  In  the  evening  Langham,  with  the  usual  reaction  of  his  after- 
noon self  against  his  morning  self,  felt  that  wild  horses  should 
not  take  him  to  church  again,  and,  with  a  longing  for  some- 
thing purely  mundane,  he  stayed  at  home  with  a  volume  of 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


215 


Montaigne,  while  apparently  all  the  rest  of  the  household  went 
to  evening  service. 

After  a  warm  day  the  evening  had  turned  cold  and  stormy; 
fche  west  was  streaked  with  jagged  strips  of  angry  cloud,  the 
wind  was  rising  in  the  trees,  and  the  temperature  had  suddenly 
fallen  so  much  that  when  Langham  shut  himself  up  in  Eobert's 
study  he  did  what  he  had  been  admonished  to  do  in  case  of 
need,  set  a  light  to  the  fire,  which  blazed  out  merrily  into  the 
darkening  room.  Then  he  drew  the  curtains  and  threw  him- 
self down  into  Robert's  chair  with  a  sigh  of  Sybaritic  satisfac- 
tion. Good!  Now  for  something  that  takes  the  world  less 
naively,"  he  said  to  himself;  ''this  house  is  too  virtuous  for 
anything." 

He  opened  his  Montaigne  and  read  on  very  happily  for  half 
an  hour.   The  house  seemed  entirely  deserted. 

''All  the  servants  gone  too!"  he  said,  presently,  looking  up 
and  listening.  "Anybody  who  wants  the  spoons  needn't 
trouble  about  me.    I  don't  leave  this  fire." 

And  he  plunged  back  again  into  his  book.  At  last  there  was 
a  sound  of  the  swing-door  which  separated  Robert's  passage 
from  the  front  hall  opening  and  shutting.  Steps  came  quickly 
toward  the  study,  the  handle  was  turned,  and  there  on  the 
threshold  stood  Rose. 

He  turned  quickly  round  in  his  chair  with  a  look  of  astonish- 
ment.  She  also  started  as  she  saw  him. 

"I  did  not  know  any  one  was  in,"  she  said,  awkwardly,  the 
color  spreading  over  her  face.    "I  came  to  look  for  a  book.'' 

She  made  a  delicious  picture  as  she  stood  framed  in  the  dark- 
ness of  the  door-way,  her  long  dress  caught  up  round  her  in  one 
hand,  the  other  resting  on  the  handle.  A  gust  of  some  deli- 
cate perfume  seemed  to  enter  the  room  with  her,  and  a  thrill 
of  pleasure  passed  through  Langham's  senses. 

"  Can  I  find  anything  for  you?"  he  said,  springing  up. 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  then  apparently  made  up  her  mind 
that  it  would  be  foolish  to  retreat,  and,  coming  forward,  she 
said,  with  an  accent  as  coldly  polite  as  she  could  make  it : 

"  Pray  don't  disturb  yourself.  I  know  exactly  where  to 
find  it." 

She  went  up  to  the  shelves  where  Robert  kept  his  novels,  and 
began  running  her  fingers  over  the  books,  with  slightly  knitted 
brows  and  a  mouth  severely  shut.  Langham,  still  standing, 
watched  her  and  presently  stepped  forward. 


^16 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


You  can't  reach  those  upper  shelves/'  he  said;  please  le 
me." 

He  was  already  beside  her,  and  she  gave  way. 

I  want  'Charles  Auchester,"'  she  said,  still  forbiddingly 
It  ought  to  be  there." 

*'0h,  that  queer  musical  novel— I  know  it  quite  well.  N<: 
sign  of  it  here,"  and  he  ran  over  the  shelves  with  the  practice( 
eye  of  one  accustomed  to  deal  with  books. 

Robert  must  have  lent  it,"  said  Rose,  with  a  httle  sigh; 

Never  mind,  please.  It  doesn't  matter,"  and  she  was  already 
moving  away. 

*'Try  some  other  instead,"  he  said,  smiling,  his  arm  stil; 
upstretched.  ''Robert  has  no  lack  of  choice."  His  manne. 
had  an  animation  and  ease  usually  quite  foreign  to  it.  Rose 
stopped,  and  her  hps  relaxed  a  little. 

'^  He  is  very  nearly  as  bad  as  the  novel-reading  bishop,  whc 
was  reduced  at  last  to  steahng  the  servant's  '  Family  Herald 
out  of  the  kitchen  cupboard,"  she  said,'  a  smile  dawning. 

Langham  laughed. 

''Has  he  such  an  episcopal  appetite  for  them?  That  ac 
counts  for  the  fact  that  when  he  and  I  begin  to  talk  novels  ]1 
am  always  nowhere." 

"I  shouldn't  have  supposed  you  ever  read  them,"  said  Rose, 
obeying  an  irresistible  impulse,  and  biting  her  Hp  the  momenii 
afterward. 

"Do  you  think  that  we  poor  people  at  Oxford  are  always 
condemned  to  works  on  the  'enclitic  '?"  he  asked,  his  fine 
eyes  lighted  up  with  gayety,  and  his  head,  of  which  the  Greek 
outlmes  were  ordinarily  so  much  disguised  by  his  stoop  and 
hesitating  look,  thrown  back  against  the  books  behind  him. 

Natures  Hke  Langham 's,  in  which  the  nerves  are  never  nor- 
mal, have  their  moments  of  feHcity,  balancing  their  weeks  oi 
timidity  and  depression.  After  his  melancholy  of  the  last  two 
days  the  tide  of  reaction  had  been  mounting  within  him,  and 
the  sight  of  Rose  had  carried  it  to  its  height. 

She  gave  a  little  involuntary  stare  of  astonishment.  What'a 
had  happened  to  Robert's  silent  and  finicking  friend? 

"I  know  nothing  of  Oxford,"  she  said,  a  little  primly,  in 
answer  to  his  question.  "  I  never  was  there— but  I  never  was^ 
anywhere,  I  have  seen  nothing,"  she  added,  hastily,  and,  as^ 
Langham  thought,  bitterly. 


ROBERT  ELSi/eRE.  217 

Except  London,  and  the  great  world,  and  Madame  Des- 
'  forets !"  he  answered,  laughing.  Is  that  so  Httlet' 
i  She  flashed  a  quick,  defiant  look  at  him,  as  he  mentioned 
!  Mme.  Desforets,  hut  his  look  was  imperturhahly  kind  and  gay. 
I  She  could  not  help  softening  toward  him.  What  magic  had 
^  passed  over  him? 

' '  Do  you  know, "  said  Langham,  moving,  '  'that  you  are  stand- 
ing in  a  draught,  and  that  it  has  turned  extremely  cold  ?" 

For  she  had  left  the  passage-door  wide  open  behind  her,  and 
as  the  window  was  partially  open  the  curtains  were  swaying 
.  I  hither  and  thither,  and  her  muslin  dress  was  being  blown  in 

coils  round  her  feet. 
\     *  So  it  has, said  Eose,  shivering.    *  *  I  don't  envy  the  Church 
I  people.   You  haven't  found  me  a  book,  Mr.  Langham?" 
i      I  will  find  you  one  in  a  minute,  if  you  will  come  and  read 
it  by  the  fire,"  he  said,  with  his  hand  on  the  door, 
i    She  glanced  at  the  fire  and  at  him,  irresolute.   His  breath 
'quickened.    She  too  had  passed  into  another  phase.   Was  it 
I  the  natural  effect  of  night,  of  solitude,  of  sex?   At  any  rate, 
she  sunk  softly  into  the  arm-chair  opposite  to  that  in  which  he 
j  had  been  sitting. 

I  "Find  me  an  exciting  one,  please." 

Langham  shut  the  door  securely,  and  went  back  to  the  book« 
case,  his  hand  trembling  a  little  as  it  passed  along  the  books. 

I I  He  found    Villette"  and  offered  it  to  her.*  She  took  it,  opened 
it,  and  appeared  deep  in  it  at  once.   He  took  the  hint  and  went 

i  i  back  to  his  Montaigne. 

The  fire  crackled  cheerfully,  the  wind  outside  made  every  now 
;  and  then  a  sudden  gusty  onslaught  on  their  silence,  dying  away 
i  again  as  abruptly  as  it  had  risen.   Eose  turned  the  pages  of  her 
book,  sitting  a  little  stiffly  in  her  long  chair,  and  Langham 
gradually  began  to  find  Montaigne  impossible  to  rea^d.   He  be- 
came instead  more  and  more  ahve  to  every  detail  of  the  situa- 
;  tion  into  which  he  had  fallen.   At  last  seeing,  or  imagining, 
!  i  that  the  fire  wanted  attending  to,  he  bent  forward  and  thrust 
I  the  poker  into  it.   A  burning  coal  fell  on  the  hearth,  and  Eose 
H  hastily  withdrew  her  foot  from  the  fender  and  looked  up. 

"I  am  so  sorry !"  he  interjected.  "  Coals  never  do  what  you 
i  want  them  to  do.  Are  you  very  much  interested  in  *  Villette?' 
!  i  Deeply,"  said  Eo^,  letting  the  book,  however,  drop  on  her 
!  I  lap.  She  laid  back  her  head  with  a  little  sigh,  which  she  did 
i\  her  best  to  check,^  half-way  through.   What  ailed  her  to-night? 


518 


BOBERT  ELSMERE. 


She  seemed  wearied;  for  the  moment  there  was  no  fight  in  her 
with  anybody.  Her  music,  her  beauty,  her  mutinous  mocking 
gayety— these  things  had  all  worked  on  the  man  beside  her;  but 
this  new  softness,  this  touch  of  childish  fatigue,  was  adorable. 

Charlotte  Bronte  wrote  it  out  of  her  Brussels  experience, 
didn't  she?"  she  resumed,  languidly.  "How  sorry  she  must 
have  been  to  come  back  to  that  dull  home  and  that  awful 
brother  after  such  a  break !" 

"There  were  reasons  more  than  one  that  must  have  made  her 
sorry  to  come  back,"  said  Langham,  reflectively.  "But  how 
she  pined  for  her  wilds  all  through !  I  am  afraid  you  don't  find 
your  wilds  as  interesting  as  she  found  hers?" 

His  question  and  his  smile  startled  her. 

Her  first  impulse  was  to  take  up  her  book  again,  as  a  hint  to 
him  that  her  likings  were  no  concern  of  his.  But  something 
checked  it,  probably  the  new  brilhancy  of  that  look  of  his, 
which  had  suddenly  grown  so  personal,  so  manly.  Instead, 

Villette"  slid  a  little  further  from  her  hand,  and  her  pretty 
head  still  lay  lightly  back  against  the  cushion. 

"No,  I  don't  find  my  wilds  interesting  at  all,"  she  said, 
forlornly. 

"You  are  not  fond  of  the  people  as  your  sister  is?" 

"Fond  of  them?"  cried  Rose,  hastily.  "  I  should  think  not; 
and  what  is  more,  they  don't  like  me.  It  is  quite  intolerable 
since  Catherine  left.  I  have  so  much  more  to  do  with  them. 
My  other  sister  and  I  have  to  do  aU  her  work.  It  is  dreadful  to 
have  to  work  after  somebody  who  has  a  genius  for  doing  just 
what  you  do  worst." 

The  young  girl's  hands  fell  across  one  another  with  a  little  im- 
patient gesture.  Langham  made  a  movement  of  the  most  de- 
lightful compassion  toward  the  petulanfc,  childish  creature.  It 
was  as  though  their  relative  positions  had  been  in  some  mys- 
terious way  reversed.  During  their  two  days  together  she  had 
been  the  superior,  and  he  had  felt  himself  at  the  mercy  of  her 
scornful,  sharp-eyed  youth.  Now,  he  knew  not  how  or  why.  Fate 
seemed  to  have  restored  to  him  something  of  the  man's  natural 
advantage,  combined,  for  once,  with  the  impulse  to  use  it. 

"Your  sister,  I  suppose,  has  been  always  happy  in  charity?" 
he  said. 

"  Oh,  dear,  yes,"  said  Eose,  irritably ;  "  anything  that  has  two 
legs  and  is  ill,  that  is  all  Catherine  wants  to  make  her  happy." 
"And  you  want  somethin^K  amte  diif^-^^^^i^i,  something  more 


EOBEET  ELSMERE, 


219 


exciting?"  he  asked,  his  diplomatic  tone  showing  that  he  felt  he 
dared  something  in  thus  pressing  her,  but  dared  it  at  least  with 
his  wits  about  him.  Eose  met  his  look  irresolutely,  a  little 
tremor  of  self-conscfBfesness  creeping  over  her. 

''Yes,  I  want  something  different,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice, 
and  paused;  then,  raising  herself  energetically,  she  clasped  her 
hands  round  her  knees.  ''But  it  is  not  idleness  I  want.  I 
want  to  work,  but  at  things  I  was  bom  for;  I  can't  have  pa- 
tience with  old  women,  but  I  could  slave  all  day  and  aU  night 
to  play  the  violin." 

''You  want  to  give  yourself  up  to  study  then,  and  live  with 
musicians?"  he  said,  quietly. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  by  way  of  answer,  and  began 
nervously  to  play  with  her  rings. 

That  under-self  which  was  the  work  and  the  heritage  of  her 
father  in  her,  and  which,  beneath  all  the  wilfulness  and  defi- 
ances of  the  other  self,  held  its  own  moral  debates  in  its  own 
way,  well  out  of  Catherine's  sight  generally,  began  to  emerge, 
v/ooed  into  the  light  by  his  friendly  gentleness. 

"But  it  is  all  so  difficult,  you  see,"  she  said,  despairingly. 
"Papa  thought  it  wicked  to  care  about  anything  except  relig- 
ion. If  he  had  lived,  of  course  I  should  never  have  been  al- 
lowed to  study  music.  It  has  been  all  mutiny  so  far,  every  bit 
of  it,  whatever  I  have  been  able  to  do." 

"  He  would  have  changed  with  the  times,"  said  Langham 

"  I  know  he  would,"  cried  Eose.  "  I  hava  told  Catherine  so 
a  hundred  times.  People— good  people— think  quite  differently 
about  art  now,  don't  they,  Mr.  Langham?" 

She  spoke  with  perfect  naivete.  He  saw  more  and  more  of 
the  child  in  her,  in  spite  of  that  one  striking  development  of 
her  art. 

"  They  call  it  the  handmaid  of  religion,"  he  answered,  smil- 
ing. 

Rose  r/iade  a  little  face. 

"I  shouldn't,"  she  said,  wltii  frank  brevity.  '  But  then 
there's  something  else.  You  know  where  we  hve— at  the  very 
ends  of  the  earth,  seven  miles  from  a  station,  in  the  very  lone- 
liest valley  of  all  Westmoreland.  What's  to  be  done  with  a 
fiddle  in  such  a  place?  Of  course,  ever  since  papa  died  I've 
just  been  plotting  and  planning  to  get  away.  But  there's  the 
difiiculty,"  and  she  crossed  one  white  finger  over  another  as 
Bhe  laid  out  her  case.    "  That  house  where  we  live  has  been 


220 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


lived  in  by  Leyburns  ever  since— the  flood !  Horrid  set  they 
were,  I  know,  because  I  can't  ever  make  mamma  or  even 
Catherine  talk  about  them.  But  still,  when  papa  retired,  he 
came  back  and  bought  the  old  place  from  l^ii^  brother.  Such  a 
dreadful,  dreadful  mistake!"  cried  the  child,  letting  her  hands 
fall  over  her  knee. 

Had  he  been  so  happy  there?" 
*'Happy !"— and  Eose's  lip  curled.  **His  brothers  used  to 
kick  and  cuff  him,  his  father  was  awfully  unkind  to  him,  he 
never  had  a  day's  peace  till  he  went  to  school,  and  after  he  went 
to  school  he  never  came  back  for  years  and  years  and  year^ 
till  Catherine  was  fifteen.  What  could  have  made  him  so  fond 
of  it  ?" 

And  again  looking  despondently  into  the  fire  she  pondered 
that  far-off  perversity  of  her  father's. 

Blood  has  strange  magnetisms,"  said  Langham,  seized  as 
he  spoke  by  the  pensive  prettiness  of  the  bent  head  and  neck, 
"and  they  show  themselves  in  the  oddest  ways." 

' '  Then  I  wish  they  wouldn't, "  she  said,  irritably.  ' '  But  that 
isn't  all.  He  went  there,  not  only  because  he  loved  that  place, 
but  because  he  hated  other  places.  I  think  he  must  have 
thought"— and  her  voice  dropped— "he  wasn't  going  to  Hve 
long— he  wasn't  well  when  he  gave  up  the  school— and  then  we 
could  grow  up  there  safe,  without  any  chance  of  getting  into 
mischief.  Catherine  says  he  thought  the  world  was  getting 
very  wicked  and  dangerous  and  irreligious,  and  that  it  com- 
forted him  to  know  that  we  should  be  out  of  it." 

Then  she  broke  off  suddenly. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  went  on,  wistfully,  raising  her  beautiful 
eyes  to  her  companion,  "  after  all,  he  gave  me  my  first  violin?" 
Langham  smiled. 

"  I  like  that  little  inconsequence,"  he  said. 

"Then  of  course  I  took  to  it,  like  a  duck  to  water,  and  it 
began  to  scare  him  that  I  loved  it  so  much.  He  and  Catherine 
only  loved  reUgion,  and  us,  and  the  poor.  So  he  always  took  it 
away  on  Simday s.  Then  I  hated  Sundays,  and  would  never  be 
good  on  them.  One  Sunday  I  cried  myself  nearly  into  a  fit  on 
the  dining-room  floor  because  I  mightn't  have  it.  Then  he 
came  in,  and  he  took  me  up,  and  he  tied  a  Scotch  plaid  round 
his  neck,  and  he  put  me  into  it,  and  carried  me  away  right  up 
on  to  the  hills,  and  he  talked  to  me  like  an  angel.   He  asked 


EGBERT  BLSMEEiEa 


221 


me  not  to  make  him  sad  before  God  that  he  had  given  me  that 
violin ;  so  I  never  screamed  again— on  Sundays !" 

Her  companion's  eyes  were  not  quite  as  clear  as  before. 

*^Poor  little  naughty  child,"  he  said,  bending  over  to  her. 
think  your  father  must  have  been  a  man  to  be  loved." 

She  looked  at  him,  very  near  to  weeping,  her  face  all  work 
ing  with  a  soft  remorse. 

' '  Oh,  so  he  was — so  he  was !  If  he  had  been  hard  and  ugly  to 
us,  why,  it  would  have  been  much  easier  for  me;  but  he  was  so 
good  !  And  there  was  Catherine  just  like  him,  always  preach- 
ing to  us  what  he  wished.  You  see  what  a  chain  it's  been— 
what  a  weight !  And  as  I  must  struggle —  musty  because  I  was 
I— to  get  back  into  the  world  on  the  other  side  of  the  moun- 
tains, and  do  what  all  the  dear  wicked  people  there  were  doing, 
why,  I  have  been  a  criminal  all  my  life !  And  that  isn't  exhil- 
arating always." 

And  she  raised  her  arm  and  let  it  fall  beside  her  with  the  - 
quick  over-tragic  emotion  of  nineteen. 

wish  your  father  could  have  heard  you  play  as  I  heard 
you  play  yesterday,"  he  said,  gently. 

She  started. 

* '  Did  you  hear  me— that  Wagner?" 

He  nodded,  smiling.  She  still  looked  at  him,  her  lips  slightly 
open. 

'*Do  you  want  to  know  what  I  thought?  I  have  heard 
much  music,  you  know." 

He  laughed  into  her  eyes,  as  much  as  to  say:  am  not 
quite  the  mummy  you  thought  me,  after  all !"  And  she  colored 
sHghtly. 

"I  have  heard  every  violinist  of  any  fame  in  Europe  play, 
and  play  often ;  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  with  time— and  work 
— you  might  play  as  well  as  any  of  them." 

The  sHght  flush  became  a  glow  that  spread  from  brow  to 
chin.  Then  she  gave  a  long  breath  and  turned  away,  her  face 
resting  on  her  hand. 

**And  I  cant  help  thinking,"  he  went  on,  marveling  in- 
wardly at  his  own  role  of  mentor,  and  his  strange  enjoyment  of 
it,  **that  if  your  father  had  lived  till  now,  and  had  gone  with 
the  times  a  little,  as  he  must  have  gone,  he  would  have  learned 
to  take  pleasure  in  your  pleasure,  and  to  fit  your  gift  somehow 
into  his  scheme  of  things." 


%22 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


"Catherine  hasn't  moved  with  the  times,"  said  Rose,  dole- 
fully. 

Langham  was  silent.  Gaucherie  seized  him  again  when  it 
became  a  question  of  discussing  Mrs.  Elsmere,  his  own  view 
was  so  inconveniently  emphatic. 

And  you  think,"  she  went  on,  '*you  really  think,  without 
being  too  ungrateful  to  papa,  and  too  unkind  to  the  old  Leybum 
ghosts" — and  a  little  laugh  danced  through  the  vibrating  voice 
— '^I  might  try  and  get  them  to  give  up  Burwood — I  might 
struggle  to  have  my  way?  I  shall;  of  course  I  shall!  I  never 
was  a  meek  martyr,  and  never  shall  be.  But  one  can't  help 
having  qualms,  though  one  doesn't  tell  them  to  one's  sist^ers 
and  cousins  and  aunts.  And  sometimes"— she  turned  her  chin 
round  on  her  hand  and  looked  at  him  with  a  delicious  shy  im- 
pulsiveness—^'sometimes  a  stranger  sees  clearer.  Do  you 
think  me  a  monster,  as  Catherine  does?" 

Even  as  she  spoke  her  own  words  startled  her— the  con- 
fidence, the  abandonment  of  them.  But  she  held  to  them 
bravely;  only  her  eyelids  quivered.  She  had  absurdly  mis- 
judged this  man,  and  there  was  a  warm  penitence  in  her  heart. 
How  kind  he  had  been,  how  sympathetic ! 

He  rose  with  her  last  words,  and  stood  leaning  against  the 
mantel-piece,  looking  down  upon  her  gravely,  with  the  air,  as 
it  seemed  to  her,  of  her  friend,  her  confessor.  Her  white  child- 
ish brow,  the  little  curls  of  bright  hair  upon  her  temples,  her 
parted  hps,  the  pretty  folds  of  the  musHn  dress,  the  httle  foot 
on  the  fender — every  detail  of  the  picture  impressed  itself  once 
for  all.    Langham  will  carry  it  with  him  to  his  grave. 

Tell  m@,"  she  said  again,  smiling  divinely,  as  though  to  en- 
courage him — *'tell  me  quite  frankly,  down  to  the  bottom, 
what  you  think?" 

The  harsh  noise  of  an  opening  door  in  the  distance,  and  a 
gust  of  wind  sweeping  through  the  house,  voices  and  steps  ap- 
proaching. Rose  sprung  up,  and,  for  the  first  time  during  all 
the  latter  part  of  their  conversation,  felt  a  sharp  sense  of  em- 
barrassment. 

*'How  early  you  are,  Robert!"  she  exclaimed,  as  the  study 
door  opened,  and  Robert's  wind-blown  head  and  tall  form, 
wrapped  in  an  Inverness  cape,  appeared  on  the  threshold.  *'Is 
Catherine  tired?" 

Rather,''  said  Robert,  the  slightest  gleam  of  surprise  be- 


KOBERT  ELSMEBE. 


228 


fcraying  itself  on  his  face.  "  She  has  gone  to  bed,  and  told  me 
fco  ask  you  to  come  and  say  good -night  to  her." 

''You  got  my  message  about  not  coming  from  old  Martha?" 
asked  Rose.    ''I  met  her  on  the  comrnon." 

''Yes,  she  gave  it  us  at  the  church  door."  He  went  out 
again  into  the  passage  to  hang  up  his  great-coat.  She  fol- 
lowed, longing  to  tell  him  that  it  was  pure  accident  that  took 
her  to  the  study,  but  she  could  not  find  words  in  which  to  do 
it,  and  could  only  say  good-night  a  little  abruptly. 

"How  tempting  that  fire  looks !"  said  Robert,  re-entering  the 
study.   ' '  Were  you  very  cold,  Langham,  before  you  lighted  it  ?" 

"Very,"  said  Langham,  smiling,  his  arm  behind  his  head, 
Ms  eyes  fixed  on  the  blaze;  "but  I  have  been  delightfully 
warm  and  happy  since.  . 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

Catherine  stopped  beside  the  drawing-room  window  with 
a  start,  caught  by  something  she  saw  outside. 

It  was  nothing,  however,  but  the  figures  of  Rose  and  Lang- 
ham strolling  round  the  garden.  A  by-stander  would  have 
been  puzzled  by  the  sudden  knitting  of  Catherine's  brows 
over  it.  • 

Rose  held  a  red  parasol,  which  gleamed  against  the  trees ;  Dan- 
die  leaped  about  her,  but  she  was  too  busy  talking  to  take  much 
notice  of  him.  Talking,  chattering  to  that  cold  cynic  of  a  man, 
for  whom  only  yesterday  she  had  scarcely  had  a  civil  word ! 
Catherine  felt  herself  a  prey  to  all  sorts  of  vague  unreasonable 
alarms. 

Robert  had  said  to  her  the  night  before,  with  an  odd  look: 
"  Wifie,  when  I  came  in  I  found  Langham  and  Rose  had  been 
spending  the  evening  together  in  the  study.  And  I  don't  know 
when  I  have  seen  Langham  so  brilliant  or  so  alive  as  in  our 
smoking  talk  just  now !" 

Catherine  had  laughed  him  to  scorn;  but,  all  the  same,  she 
had  been  a  little  longer  going  to  sleep  than  usual.  She  felt  her- 
self almost  as  much  as  ever  the  guardian  of  her  sisters,  and  the 
old  sensitive  nerve  was  set  quivering.  And  now  there  could  be 
^o  question  about  it— Rose  had  changed  her  ground  toward  Mr. 
•  angham  altogether.  Her  manner  at  breakfast  was  evidence 
mough  of  it. 

<^a therine's  self-torturing  mind  leaped  on  for  an  instant  to  all 


224 


ROBERT  ELSMtRii. 


sorts  of  horrors.  That  metu  I— and  she  and  Robert  responsible 
to  her  mother  and  her  dead  father  I  Never  I  Then  she  scolded 
herself  back  to  common  sense.  Rose  and  he  had  discovered  a 
common  subject  in  music  and  musicians.  That  would  be  quite 
enough  to  account  for  the  new-born  friendship  on  Rose's  part., 
And  in  five  more  days,  the  hmit  of  Langham's  stay,  nothing, 
very  dreadful  could  happen,  argued  the  reserved  Catherine. 

But  she  was  uneasy,  and  after  a  bit,  as  that  tete-a-tete  in  the 
garden  still  went  on,  she  could  not,  for  the  hfe  of  her,  help  in- 
terfering. She  strolled  out  to  meet  them  with  some  woolen  stuff 
hanging  over  her  ann,  and  made  a  plaintive  and  smiling  appeal 
to  Rose  to  come  and  help  her  with  some  preparations  for  a: 
mothers'  meeting  to  be  held  that  afternoon.  Rose,  who  was 
supposed  by  the  family  to  be  "  taking  care  "  of  her  sister  at  a 
critical  time,  had  a  moment's  prick  of  conscience,  and  went  off 
with  a  good  grace.  Langham  felt  vaguely  that  he  owed  Mrs. 
Elsmere  another  grudge,  but  he  resigned  himself  and  took  out 
a  cigarette,  wherewith  to  console  himself  for  the  loss  of  his  | 
companion. 

Presently,  as  he  stood  for  a  moment  turning  over  some  new 
books  on  the  drawing-room  table,  Rose  came  in.  She  held  an 
armful  of  blue  serge,  and,  going  up  to  a  table  in  the  window, 
she  too'k  fi'om  it  a  little  workrcase,  and  was  about  to  vanish 
again  when  Langham  went  up  to  her. 

"You  look  intolerably  busy,"  he  said  to  her,  discontentedly. 

* '  Six  dresses,  ten  cloaks,  eight  petticoats  to  cut  out  by  lunch- 
eon time,"  she  answered,  demurely,  with  a  countenance  of 
most  Dorcas-like  seriousness,  and  if  I  spoil  them  I  shall  have 
to  pay  for  the  stuff !" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  looked  at  her,  smiling,  still 
master  of  himself  and  of  his  words. 

And  no  music  -none  at  all?  Perhaps  you  don't  know  that 
I  too  can  accompany?" 

You  play  I"  she  exclaimed,  incredulous. 

"  Try  me." 

The  light  of  his  fine  black  eyes  seemed  to  encompass  her.  She 
'moved  backward  a  httle,  shaking  her  head.  ''Not  this  morn- 
ing," she  said.  ''Oh,  dear,  no,  not  this  morning !  I  am  afraid 
you  don't  know  anything  about  tacking  or  fixing,  or  the  abom- 
inable time  they  take.  Well,  it  could  hardly  be  expected.  There 
is  nothing  in  the  world  " — and  she  shook  her  serge  vindictively 
— ' '  that  I  hate  so  much  V!> 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


225 


And  not  this  afternoon,  for  Robert  and  I  go  fishing.  But 
this  evening?"  he  said,  detaining  her. 

She  nodded  Kghtly,  dropped  her  lovely  eyes  with  a  sudden 
embarrassment,  and  went  away  with  lightning  quickness. 

A  minute  or  two  later  Elsmere  laid  a  hand  on  his  friend's 
shoulder.  Come  and  see  the  Hall,  old  fellow.  It  will  be  our 
last  chance,  for  the  squire  and  his  sister  come  back  this  after- 
noon. I  must  parochialize  a  bit  afterward,  but  you  sha'n't  be 
much  victimized." 

Langham  submitted,  and  they  sallied  forth.  It  was  a  soft, 
rainy  morning,  one  of  the  first  heralds  of  autumn.  Gray  mists 
were  drifting  silently  across  the  woods  and  the  wide  stubbles  of 
the  now  shaven  corn-field,  where  white  lines  of  reapers  were  at 
work,  as  the  morning  cleared,  making  and  stacking  the  sheaves. 
After  a  stormy  night  the  garden  was  strewn  with  debris,  and 
here  and  there  noiseless  prophetic  showers  of  leaves  were  drop- 
ping on  the  lawn. 

Elsmere  took  his  guest  along  a  bit  of  common,  where  great 
black  junipers  stood  up  hke  magnates  in  council  above  the  mot- 
iey  undergrowth  of  fern  and  heather,  and  then  they  turned  into 
the  park.  A  great  stretch  of  dimpled  land  it  was,  falling  softly 
toward  the  south  and  west,  bounded  15^  a  shining  twisted  river, 
and  commanding  from  all  its  highest  points  a  heathery  world 
of  distance,  now  turned  a  stormy  purple  under  the  drooping 
fringes  of  the  rain  clouds.  They  walked  downward  from  the 
moment  of  entering  it,  till  at  last,  when  they  reached  a  wooden 
plateau  about  a  hundred  feet  above  the  river,  the  house  itself 
came  suddenly  into  view. 

That  was  a  house  of  houses!  The  large  main  building,  as 
distinguished  from  the  lower  stone  portions  to  the  north  which 
represented  a  fragment  of  the  older  Elizabethan  house,  had 
been  in  its  day  the  crown  and  boast  of  Jacobean  house-archi- 
tecture. It  was  fretted  and  jeweled  with  Renaissance  terra- 
cotta work  from  end  to  end;  each  gable  had  its  lace- work, 
each  window  its  carved  setting.  And  yet  the  lines  of  the 
whole  were  so  noble,  genius  had  hit  the  general  proportions  so 
finely,  that  no  effect  of  stateliness  or  grandeur  had  been 
missed  through  all  the  accumulation  of  ornament.  Majestic 
relic  of  a  vanished  England,  the  house  rose  amid  the  August 
woods  rich  in  every  beauty  that  site  and  wealth  and  centuries 
could  give  to  it.  The  river  ran  about  it  as  though  it  loved  it. 
The  cedars  which  bad  kept  it  company  for  well-nigh  t^vo  cen 


226  ROBERT  ELSMERE. 

turies  gathered  proudly  round  it ;  the  deer  grouped  themselves 
in  the  park  beneath  it,  as  though  they  were  conscious  elements 
in  a  great  whole  of  loveliness. 

The  two  friends  were  admitted  by  a  house-maid  who  hap- 
pened to  be  busy  in  the  hall,  and  whose  red  cheeks  and  general 
breathlessness  bore  witness  to  the  energy  of  the  storm  of 
preparation  now  sweeping  through  the  house. 

The  famous  hall  to  which  Elsmere  at  once  drew  Langham's 
attention  was,  however,  in  no  way  remarkable  for  size  or 
height.   It  told  comparatively  little  of  seignorial  dignity,  but 
it  was  as  though  generation  after  generation  had  employed 
upon  its  perfecting  the  craft  of  its  most  deUcate  fingers,  the 
love  of  its  most  fanciful  and  ingenious  spirits.    Overhead,  the 
stucco-work  ceiling,  covered  with  stags  and  birds  and  strange 
heraldic  creatures  unknown  to  science,  had  the  deep  creamy 
tint,  the  consistency  and  surface  of  antique  ivory.   From  the 
white  and  gilt  frieze  beneath,  untouched,  so  Bobert  explained, 
since  the  Jacobean  days  when  it  was  first  executed,  hung 
Renaissance  tapestries  which  would  have  made  the  heart's  de- 
light of  any  romantic  child,  so  rich  they  were  in  groves  of 
marvelous  trees  hung  with  red  and  golden  fruits,  in  far-reach- 
ing palaces  and  rock-buiifc  citadels,  in  flying  shepherdesses  and 
pursuing  shepherds.    Between  the  tapestries,  again,  there 
were  breadths  of  carved  panehng,  crowded  with  all  things 
round  and  sweet,  with  fruits  and  flowers  and  strange  musical 
instruments,  with  flying  cherubs,  and  fair  faces  in  laurel- 
wreathed  medalHons;  while  in  the  middle  of  the  wall  a  great 
oriel  window  broke  the  dim  venerable  surfaces  of  wood  and 
tapestry  with  stretches  of  jeweled  light.    Tables  crowded  with 
antiques,  with  Tanagra  figures  or  Greek  vases,  with  Floren- 
tine bronzes  or  specimens  of  the  wilful,  vivacious  wood-carv- 
ing of  seventeenth-century  Spain,  stood  scattered  on  the  Per- 
sian carpets.    And,  to  complete  the  whole,  the  gardeners  had 
just  been  at  work  on  the  corners  of  the  hall,  and  of  the 
great  window,  so  that  the  hard-worn  subtleties  of  man's  by- 
gone handiwork,  with  which  the  splendid  room  was  incrusted 
from  top  to  bottom,  were  masked  and  reUeved  here  and  there 
by  the  careless  easy  splendor  of  flowers,  which  had  but  to 
bloom  in  order  to  eclipse  them  all. 

Robert  was  at  home  in  the  great  pile,  where  for  many 
months  he  had  gone  freely  in  and  out  on  his  way  to  the  hbrary, 
and  the  housekeeper  only  met  hipa  to  make  an  apology  for 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


227 


her  working-dress,  and  to  hand  over  to  him  the  keys  of  the 
hbrary  book-cases,  with  the  fretful  comment  that  seemed  to 
have  in  it  the  ghostly  voice  of  generations  of  house-maids : 

Oh,  Lor',  sir,  they  are  a  trouble,  them  books!" 

From  the  drawing-rooms,  full  of  a  more  modern  and  less 
poetical  magnificence,  where  Langham  turned  restless  and  re^ 
fractory,  Elsmere  with  a  smile  took  his  guest  silently  back 
into  the  hall,  and  opened  a  carved  door  behind  a  curtain.  Pass> 
ing  through,  they  found  themselves  in  a  long  passage  lighted 
by  small  windows  on  the  left-hand  side.  * 

''This  passage,  please  notice,"  said  Kobert,  *' leads  to  noth 
ing  but  the  wing  containing  the  hbrary,  or  rather  libraries, 
which  is  the  oldest  part  of  the  house.  I  always  enter  it  with  a 
kind  of  pleasing  avv  e !  Consider  these  carpets,  which  keep  out 
every  sound,  and  look  how  everything  gets  older  as  we  gc  on." 

For  half-way  down  the  passage  the  ceiling  seemed  to  desoend 
upon  their  heads,  the  flooring  became  uneven,  and  wood- work 
and  walls  showed  that  they  had  passed  from  the  J acobean  house 
into  the  much  older  Tudor  building.  Presently  Robert  led  the 
way  up  a  few  shallow  steps,  pushed  open  a  heavy  door,  also 
covered  by  curtains,  and  bade  his  companion  enter. 

They  found  themselves  in  a  low,  immense  room,  running  at 
right  angles  to  the  passage  they  had  just  quitted.  The  long 
diamond-paned  window,  filling  almost  half  of  the  opposite 
wall,  faced  the  door  by  which  they  had  come  in;  the  heavy 
carved  mantel-piece  was  to  their  right ;  an  open  door- way  on 
their  left,  closed  at  present  by  tapestry  hangings,  seemed  to 
lead  into  yet  other  rooms. 

The  walls  of  this  one  were  completely  covered  from  floor  to 
ceiling  with  latticed  book-cases,  inclosed  throughout  in  a  frame 
of  oak  carved  in  light  classical  relief  by  what  appeared  to  be  a 
French  hand  of  4ihe  sixteenth  century.  The  checkered  bind- 
ings of  the  books,  in  which  the  creamy  tints  of  vellum  pre- 
dominated, lined  the  whole  surface  of  the  wall  with  a  delicate 
sobriety  of  color;  over  the  mantel-piece,  the  picture  of  the 
founder  of  the  house — a  Holbein  portrait,  glorious  in  red  robes 
and  fur  and  golden  necklace— seemed  to  gather  up  and  give 
voice  to  all  the  dignity  and  impressiveness  of  the  room  be- 
neath him ;  while  on  the  window-side  the  book-lined  ^vall  was, 
as  it  were,  replaced  by  the  wooded  face  of  a  hill,  clothed  in 
dark  lines  of  trimmed  yews,  which  rose  abruptly  about  a  hun- 
dred yards  from  tihe  house  and  overshadowed  the  whole 


228 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


library  wing.  Between  the  window  and  the  MQ,  however, 
was  a  small  old  Enghsh  garden,  closely  hedged  round  with 
yew  hedges,  and  blazing  now  with  every  flower  that  an  Eng- 
lish August  knows— with  sunflowei-s,  tiger-Lilies,  and  dahlias 
while  and  red.  The  window  was  low,  so  that  the  flowers 
seemed  to  be  actually  in  the  room,  challenging  the  pale  tints 
of  the  books,  the  tawny  bro^vns  and  blues  of  the  Persian  car- 
pet, and  the  scarlet  splendors  of  the  courtier  over  the  mantel- 
piece. The  room  was  lighted  up,  besides,  by  a  few  gleaming 
casts  from  the  antique,  by  the  Diane  Chasseresse'' of  the 
Louvre,  by  the  Hermes  of  Praxiteles,  smiling  with  immortal 
kindness  on  the  child  enthroned  upon  his  arm,  and  by  a  Dona- 
tello  figure  of  a  woman  in  marble,  its  subtle,  sweet  austerity 
contrasting  with  the  Greek  frankness  and  bhtheness  of  its 
companions.  '4 

Langham  was  penetrated  at  once  by  the  spell  of  this  strange 
and  beautiful  place.  The  fastidious  instincts  which  had  been 
half  revolted  by  the  costly  accumulations,  the  overblown  splen- 
dors of  the  drawing-room,  were  abundantly  satisfied  here. 

''So  it  was  here,"  he  said,  lookmg  round  him,  '^that  that 
man  wrote  '  The  Idols  of  the  Market-place?" 

''I  imagine  so,"  said  Robert;  '^if  so,  he  might  well  have 
felt  a  little  more  charity  toward  the  human  race  in  writing  it. 
The  race  can  not  be  said  to  have  treated  him  badly  oh  the 
whole.  But  now  look,  Langham,  look  at  these  books— the 
most  precious  things  are  here. " 

And  he  turned  the  key  of  a  particular  section  of  the  wall 
which  was  not  only  latticed  but  glazed. 

' '  Here  is  *  A  Mirror  for  Magistrates. '  Look  at  the  title-page ; 
you  wQl  find  Gabriel  Harvey's  name  on  it.  Here  is  the  first 
edition  of  'Astrophel  and  Stella,'  another  of  the  Arcadia 
They  may  very  well  be  presentation  copies,  for  the  Wendover 
of  that  day  is  known  to  have  been  a  wit  and  a  writer.  Imag- 
ine finding  them  in  situ  like  this  in  the  same  room,  perhaps  on 
the  same  shelves,  as  at  the  beginning.  The  other  rooms  on 
this  floor  have  been  annexed  since,  but  this  room  was  always 
a  library." 

Langham  took  the  volumes  reverently  from  Robert's  hands 
into  his  own,  the  scholar's  passion  hot  within  him.  That  glazed 
case  was  indeed  a  store-house  of  treasures.  Ben  Jonson's  Un- 
derwoods "  with  his  own  corrections ;  a  presentation  copy  of 
Andrew  Marvell's  "  Poems,"  with  autograph  notes;  manuscript 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


229 


volumes  of  letters,  containing  almost  every  famous  name  known 
to  English  literature  in  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centu- 
ries, the  hterary  cream, In  fact,  of  all  the  vast  collection  which 
filled  the  muniment  room  upstairs ;  books  which  had  belonged 
to  Addison,  to  Sir  William  Temple,  to  Swift,  to  Horace  Wal- 
pole ;  the  first  four  folios  of  Shakespeare,  all  perfect,  and  most 
of  the  quartos— every  thing  that  the  heart  of  the  English  collect- 
or could  most  desire  was  there.  And  the  charm  of  it  was  that 
only  a  small  proportion  of  these  precious  thing  represented  con- 
scious and  deliberate  acquisition.  The  great  majority  of  them 
had,  as  it  were,  drifted  thither  one  by  one,  carried  thereby  the 
tide  of  Enghsh  letters  as  to  a  warm  and  natural  resting-place. 

But  Robert  grew  impatient,  and  hurried  on  his  guest  to  other 
things— to  the  shelves  of  French  rarities,  ranging  from  Du  Bel- 
lay's  "  Visions,"  with  his  autograph,  down  to  the  copy  of  *'Les 
Memoires  d'Outre-Tombe "  presented  by  Chateaubriand  to 
Mme.  Recamier,  or  to  a  dainty  manuscript  valume  in  the  fine 
writing  of  Lamartine. 

"These,"  Robert  explained,  "were  collected,  I  believe,  by 
the  squire's  father.  He  was  not  in  the  least  literary,  so  they  say, 
but  it  had  always  been  a  point  of  honor  to  carry  on  the  library, 
and  as  he  had  learned  French  well  in  his  youth  he  bought  French 
things,  taking  advice,  but  without  knowing  much  about  them, 
I  imagine.  It  was  in  the  room  overhead,"  said  Robert,  laying 
down  the  book  he  held,  and  speaking  in  a  lower  key,  "  so  the 
old  doctor  of  the  house  told  me  a  few  weeks  ago,  that  the  same 
poor  soul  put  an  end  to  himself  twenty  years  ago." 

"What  in  the  name  of  fortune  did  he  do  that  for?" 

"  Mania,"  said  Robert,  quietly.  - 

"  Whew  1"  said  the  other,  lifting  his  eyebrows.  "  Is  that  the 
skeleton  in  this  very  magnificent  cupboard?" 

"It  has  been  the  Wendover  scourge  from  the  beginning, 
so  T  hear.  Every  one  about  here  of  course  explains  this  man's 
eccentricities  by  the  family  history.  '  But  I  don't  know,"  said 
Robert,  his  lip  hardening;  "it  may  be  extremely  convenient 
sometimes  to  have  a  tradition  of  the  kind.  A  man  who  knew 
how  to  work  it  might  very  well  enjoy  all  the  advantages  of 
sanity  and  the  privileges  of  insanity  at  the  same  time.  The  poor 
old  doctor  I  was  telling  you  of —old  Meyrick— -who  has  known 
the  squire  siiire  his  boyhood,  and  has  a  dog-like  attachment  to 
him,  is  al  ways  hinting  at  mysterious  excuses.  Whenever  I  let 
out  to  him,  as  I  do  sometimes,  as  to  the  state  of  the  property ,  he 


230 


ROBERT  EL6MERE. 


talks  of  '  inherited  melancholy,' '  rash  judgments,'  and  so  forth. 
I  Uke  the  good  old  soul,  hut  I  don't  heheve  much  of  it.  A  man 
who  is  sane  enough  to  make  a  great  name  for  himself  in  letters 
is  sane  enough  to  provide  his  estate  with  a  decent  agent," 

^'It  doesn't  foUow,"  said  Langham,  who  was,  however,  so 
deep  in  a  collection  of  Spanish  romances  and  chronicles  that 
the  squire's  mental  history  did  not  seem  to  make  much  impres- 
sion upon  him.  ' '  Most  men  of  letters  are  mad,  and  I  should  be 
inclined,"  he  added,  with  a  sudden  and  fretful  emphasis,  "to 
argue  much  worse  things  for  the  sanity  of  your  squire,  Els- 
mere,  from  the  fact  that  this  room  is  undoubtedly  allowed  to 
get  damp  sometimes,  than  from  any  of  those  absurd  parochial 
tests  of  yours." 

And  he  held  up  a  couple  of  priceless  books,  of  which  the  Span- 
ish sheepskin  bindings  showed  traces  here  and  there  of  moisture. 

"  It  is  no  use,  I  know,  expecting  you  to  preserve  a  moral  sense 
when  you  get  among  books, "  said  Eobert,  with  a  shrug.  ' '  I  will 
reserve  my  remarks  on  that  subject.  But  you  must  reaUy  tear 
yourself  away  from  this  room,  Langham,  if  you  want  to  see  the 
the  rest  of  the  squire's  quarters.  Here  you  have  what  we  may 
call  the  ornamental  sensational  part  of  the  hbrary,  that  part  of 
it  which  would  make  a  stii'  at  Sotheby's;  the  working  parts  are 
all  to  come." 

Langham  reluctantly  allowed  himself  to  be  dragged  away. 
Robert  held  back  the  hangings  over  the  door-way  leading  into 
the  rest  of  the  wing,  and,  passing  through,  they  found  them- 
selves in  a  continuation  of  the  library  totally  different  in  char- 
acter from  the  magnificent  room  they  had  just  left.  The  walls 
were  no  longer  latticed  and  carved;  they  were  closely  packed, 
in  the  most  business-like  way,  with  books  which  represented 
the  squire's  own  collection,  and  were  in  fact  a  chart  of  his  own 
intellectual  history. 

*'This  is  how  I  interpret  this  room,"  said  Robert,  looking 
round  it.  ''Here  are  the  books  he  collected  at  Oxford  in  the 
Tractarian  Movement  and  afterward.  Look  here,"  and  he 
pulled  out  a  volume  of  St.  Basil. 

Langham  looked,  and  saw  on  the  title-page  a  note,  in  faded 
characters:  ''Given  to  me  by  Newman  at  Oxford,  in  1845." 

"  Ah,  of  course,  he  was  one  of  them  in  '45 ;  he  must  have  left 
them  very  soon  after,"  said  Langham,  reflectively. 

Robert  nodded.  But  look  at  them !  There  are  the  Tracts, 
all  lihe  Fathers-  all  the  Councils,,  and  masses,  as  you  see,  of 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


231 


Anglican  theology.  Now  look  at  the  next  case,  nothing  but 
eighteenth  century !" 

I  see  from  the  Fathers  to  the  Philosophers,  from  Hooker  to 
Hume.    How  history  repeats  itself  in  the  individual !" 

And  there  again,"  said  Robert,  pointing  to  the  other  side  of 
the  room,    are  the  results  of  his  life  as  a  German  student." 

Germany — ^ah,  I  remember!  How  long  was  he  there?" 
' '  Ten  years,  at  Berlin  and  Heidelberg.  According  to  old  Mey- 
rick,  he  buried  his  last  chance  of  living  like  other  men  at  Berlin. 
His  years  of  extravagant  labor  there  have  left  marks  upon  him 
physically  that  can  never  be  effaced.  But  that  book-case  fas- 
cinates me.  Half  the  great  names  of  modern  thought  are  in 
those  books." 

And  so  they  were.  The  first  Langham  opened  had  a  Latin 
dedication  in  a  quavering  old  man's  hand:  ''Amico  et  discipulo 
meo, "  signed  ' '  Fredericus  Gulielmus  Schelling. "  The  next  bore 
the  autograph  of  Alexander  von  Humboldt,  the  next  that  of 
Boeckh,  the  famous  classic,  and  so  on.  Close  by  was  Niebuhr's 
' '  History, "  in  the  title-page  of  which  a  few  lines  in  the  historian's 
handwaiting  bore  witness  to  much  pleasant  discourse  between 
the  writer  and  Roger  Wendover,  at  Bonn,  in  the  summer  of 
1847."  Judging  from  other  shelves  further  down,  he  must  also 
have  spent  some  time,  perhaps  an  academic  year,  at  Tiibingen. 
for  here  were  most  of  the  early  editions  of  the  ''Leben  Jesu,'' 
with  some  corrections  from  Strauss's  hand,  and  similar  records 
of  Baur,  Ewald,  and  other  members  or  opponents  of  the  Tiibingen 
school.  And  so  on,  through  the  whole  book-case.  Something 
of  everything  was  there— philosophy,  theology,  history,  philol- 
ogy. The  collection  was  a  medley,  and  made  almost  a  spot  of 
disorder  in  the  exquisite  neatness  and  system  of  the  vast  gather- 
ing of  which  it  formed  part.  Its  bond  of  union  was  simply  that 
it  represented  the  for^s  of  an  epoch,  the  thoughts,  the  men, 
the  occupations  which  had  absorbed  the  energies  of  ten  golden 
years.  Every  book  seemed  to  be  full  of  paper  marks ;  almost 
every  title-page  was  covered  with  minute  writing,  which,  when 
examined,  proved  to  contain  a  record  of  lectures,  or  conversa- 
tions with  the  author  of  the  volume,  sometimes  a  string  of 
anecdotes  or  a  short  biography,  rapidly  sketched  out  of  the  full- 
ness of  personal  knowledge,  and  often  seasoned  with  a  subtle 
causticity  and  wit.  A  history  of  modern  thinking  Germany, 
of  that    unextinguished  hearth"  whence  thQ  mind  of  Europe 


232 


KOBEET  ELSMERE. 


has  been  kindled  for  three  generations,  might  ahnost  have  been 
evolved  from  that  book-case  and  its  contents  alone. 

Langham,  as  he  stood  peering  among  the  ugly,  vilely  printed 
German  volumes,  felt  suddenly  a  kind  of  magnetic  influence 
creeping  over  him.  The  room  seemed  instinct  with  a  harsh,  - 
commanding  presence.  The  history  of  a  mind  and  soul  was 
written  upon  the  face  of  it ;  every  shelf,  as  it  were,  was  an  auto- 
biographical fragment,  an  ''Apologia  pro  Vita  Mea."  He  drew 
away  from  the  books  at  last  with  the  uneasy  feeling  of  one  who 
surprises  a  confidence,  and  looked  for  Eobert.  Eobert  was  at 
the  end  of  the  room,  a  couple  of  volumes  under  his  arm,  another, 
which  he  was  reading,  in  his  hands. 

''  This  is  my  corner,"  he  said,  smiling  and  flushing  a  little,  as 
his  friend  moved  up  to  him.  ''Perhaps  you  don't  know  that 
I  too  am  engaged  upon  a  great  work." 

"  A  great  work— you  ?" 

Langham  looked  at  his  companion  as  though  to  find  out 
whether  his  remark  was  meant  seriously  or  whether  he  might 
venture  to  be  cynical.  Elsmere  writing  !  Why  shoi^d  every- 
body write  books  ?  It  was  absurd  !  The  scholar  w^  knows 
what  toll  scholarship  takes  of  life  is  always  apt  to  resent  the  in- 
trusion of  the  man  of  action  into  his  domains.  It  looks  to  him 
like  a  kind  of  ridiculous  assumption  that  any  one  d'un  coeur 
leger  can  do  what  has  cost  him  his  heart's  blood, 

Robert  understood  something  of  the  meaning  of  his  tone,  and 
replied  almost  apologetically ;  he  was  always  singularly  modest 
about  himself  on  the  intellectual  side. 

"  Well,  Grey  is  responsible.  He  gave  me  such  a  homily  be- 
fore I  left  Oxford  on  the  absolute  necessity  of  keeping  up  with 
books,  that  I  could  do  nothing  less  than  set  up  a  '  subject'  at 
once.  '  Half  the  day,'  he  used  to  say  to  me,  '  you  will  be  king 
of  your  world  ;  the  other  half  be  the  slave  of  something  which 
will  take  you  out  of  your  world  into  the  general  world ;'  and  then 
he  would  quote  to  me  that  saying  he  was  always  bringing  into 
lectures — I  forget  whose  it  is — '  The  decisive  events  of  the  tvorld 
take  place  in  the  intellect.  It  is  the  mission  of  books  that  they 
help  one  to  remember  it.'  Altogether  it  was  striking,  coming 
from  one  who  has  always  had  such  a  tremendous  respect  for 
practical  life  and  work,  and  I  was  much  impressed  by  it.  So 
blame  him  !" 

Langham  was  silent.  Elsmere  had  noticed  that  any  allusion 
to  Grey  found  Langham  less  and  less  responsive. 


ROBERT  ELSP^ERE. 


233 


Well,  what  is  the  '  great  work'  ?"  he  said  at  last,  abruptly. 

Historical.  Oh;  I  shoulfl  have  written  something  without 
G-rey ;  I  have  always  had  a  turn  for  it  since  I  was  a  child.  But 
he  was  clear  that  history  was  especially  valuable—especially 
necessary  to  a  clergyman.  I  felt  he  was  right,  entirely  right. 
So  I  took  my  Final  Schools'  history  for  a  basis,  and  started  on 
the  Empijre,  especially  the  decay  of  the  Empire.  Some  day  I 
mean  to  take  up  one  of  the  episodes  in  tl^  great  birth  of 
Europe— the  makings  of  France,  I  think,  most  likely.  It  seems 
to  lead  furtherest  and  tell  most.  I  have  beeu  at  work  now  nine 
months." 

' '  And  are  just  getting  into  it  ?" 

Just  about.  I  have  got  down  below  the  surface,  and  am 
beginning  to  feel  the  joys  of  digging;  and  Kobert  threw 
back  his  head  with  one  of  bis  most  brilliant  enthusiastic  smiles. 
'I  have  been  shy  about  boring  you  with  the  thing,  but  the 
fact  is,  I  am  very  keen,  indeed;  and  this  library  has  been  a 
godsend  !" 

*'So  I  should  think."  Langham  sat  down  on  one  of  the 
carved  wooden  stools  placed  at  intervals  along  the  book-cases 
and  looked  at  his  friend,  his  psychological  curiosity  rising  a 
little. 

Tell  me,"  he  said  presently— tell  me  what  interests  you 
specially— what  seizes  you— in  a  subject  like  the  making  of 
France,  for  instance  ?" 

''Do  you  really  want  to  know  ?"  said  Eobert,  incredulously. 

The  other  nodded.  Eobert  left  his  place,  and  began  to  walk 
up  and  down,  trying  to  answer  Langham's  question,  and  at  the 
same  time  to  fix  in  speech  a  number  of  sentiments  and  impres- 
sions bred  in  him  by  the  work  of  the  past  few  months.  After 
awhile  Langham  began  to  see  his  way.  Evidently  the  forces 
at  the  bottom  of  this  new  historical  interest  were  precisely  the 
same  forces  at  work  in  Elsmere's  parish  plans,  in  his  sermons, 
in  his  dealings  with  the  poor  and  the  young— forces  of  imagina- 
tion and  sympathy.  What  was  enchaining  him  to  this  new 
study  was  not,  to  begin  with,  that  patient  love  of  ingenious  ac 
cumulation  which  is  the  learned  temper  proper,  the  temper,  in 
short,  of  science.  It  was  simply  a  passionate  sense  of  the  human 
problems  which  underlie  all  the  dry  and  dusty  detail  of  history 
and  give  it  tone  and  color,  a  passionate  desire  to  rescue  something 
more  of  human  life  from  the  drowning,  submerging  past,  to 


234 


ROBERT  ELSMBRE. 


reaKze  for  himself  and  others  the  solidarity  and  continuity  of 
mankind's  long  struggle  from  the  beginning  until  now. 

Langham  had  had  much  experience  of  Elsmere's  versatility 
and  pliancy,  but  he  had  never  realized  it  so  much  as  now,  while 
he  sat  listening  to  the  vivid,  many-colored  speech  getting 
quicker  and  quicker,  and  more  and  more  telhng  and  original  as 
Robert  got  more  absorbed  and  excited  by  what  he  had  to  say. 
He  was  endeavoring  to  describe  to  Langham  the  sort  of  book 
he  thought  might  be  written  on  the  rise  of  modem  society  in 
Gaul,  dwelling  first  of  all  on  the  outward  spectacle  of  the  blood- 
stained Frankish  world  as  it  was,  say,  in  the  days  of  Gregory 
the  Great,  on  its  savage  kings,  its  fiendish  women,  its  bishops 
^d  its  saints;  and  then,  on  the  conflict  of  ideas  going  on  be- 
hind all  the  fierce  incoherence  of  the  Empire's  decay,  the  strug- 
gle of  Eoman  order  and  of  German  freedom,  of  Roman  luxury 
and  of  German  hardness ;  above  all,  the  war  of  orthodoxy  and 
hei€«y,  with  its  strange  poHtical  oompHcations.  And  then,  dis- 
contented still,  as  though  the  heart  of  the  matter  were  still  un- 
touched, he  went  on,  restlessly  wandering  the  while,  with  his 
long  arms  hnked  behind  him,  ''throwing  out "  words  at  an  ob- 
ject in  his  mind,  trying  to  grasp  and  analyze  that  strange  sense 
which  haunts  the  student  of  Rome's  decline  as  it  once  over- 
shadowed the  infancy  of  Europe,  that  sense  of  a  slowly  de- 
parting majesty,  of  a  great  presence  just  withdrawn,  and 
still  incalcuiably  potent,  traceable  throughout  in  that  humbling 
consciousness  of  Goth  or  Frank  that  they  were  but  "beggars 
hunting  in  a  palace— the  place  had  harbored  greater  men  than 
they  !" 

''There  is  one  thing,"  Langham  said  presently,  in  his  slow, 
nonchalant  voice,  when  the  tide  of  Robert's  ardor  ebbed  for  a 
moment,  ' '  that  doesn't  seem  to  have  touched  you  yet.  But  you 
will  come  to  it.  To  my  mind,  it  makes  almost  the  chief  interest 
of  history.  It  is  just  this.  History  depends  on  #es^^mon^/.  What 
is  the  nature  and  the  value  of  the  testimony  at  given  times?  In 
other  words,  did  the  man  of  the  third  century  understand,  or 
report,  or  interpret  facts  in  the  same  way  as  the  man  of  the  six- 
teenth or  the  nineteenth  ?  And  if  not,  what  are  the  differences, 
and  what  are  the  deductions  to  be  made  from  them,  if  any?" 
He  fixed  his  keen  look  on  Robert,  who  was  now  lounging  against 
the  books,  as  though  his  harangue  had  taken  it  out  of  him  a 
little. 

''Ah.  well,  "said  tbf^  rector,  smiling,  "I  am  only  just  com- 


EOBEBT  ELSMEEE.  ^35 


iBg  to  that.  As  I  told  you,  I  am  only  now  beginning  to  dig  for 
self  Till  now  it  has  all  been  work  at  second  hand.  I  have 
Sgettingageneral  survey  of  the  ground  as  quicldy  as  I  could 
S  the  hip  of  other  men'slabors.  Now  I  must  go  to  work 
Sby  inch,  and  find  out  what  the  ground  is  made  of.  I  won  t 
Srget  your  point.  It  is  enormously  important,  I  grant-enor- 
mouslv  "  he  repeated,reflectively.  „  , 

'Sould  tMnk  it  is,"  said  Langham  to  himself,  as  he  rose; 
"the  whole  of  orthodox  Christianity  is  in  it,  formstance. 

There  was  not  much  more  to  be  seen.  A  little  wooden  stair- 
case  led  from  the  second  library  to  the  upper  rooms,  curious  old 
rooms  which  had  been  annexed  one  by  one  as  the  squire  wanted 
them,  'and  in  which  there  was  nothing  at  ail-neither  chair  nor 
tabS  nor  carpet-but  books  only. .  All  the  doors  leadmg  from 
room  to  room  had  been  taken  off;  the  old  worm-eaten  boards 
had  been  roughly  stained;  a  few  old  French  engravmgs  had 
been  hung  here  and  there  where  the  encroaching  books  left  an 
opening;  but  otherwise  all  was  bare.  There  was  a  curious 
charm  in  the  space  and  air  of  these  empty  rooms,  with  their 
latticed  wmdows  opening  on  to  the  hill,  and  letting  in.dayj^y 
day  the  summer  sun-risings  or  the  winter  dawns,  which  had 
shone  upon  them  for  more  than  three  centuries. 

"  This  is  my  last  day  of  privHege,"  said  Eobert.  Everybody 
.is  shut  out  when  once  he  appears,  from  this  wing,  and  this  part 
of  the  grounds.  This  was  his  father's  room,"  and  the  rector 
led  the  way  into  the  last  of  the  series;  "and  through  there, 
pointing  to  a  door  on  the  right,  "  lies  the  way  to  his  own  sleep- 
Lg  room,  which  is  of  course  connected  with  the  more  modem 

side  of  the  house."  ,  <   ,  ^     4.  j-j  „„/i 

"  So  this  is  where  that  old  man  ventured  what  Cato  did  and 
Addison  approved,' "  murmured  Langham,  standing  m  the 
middle  of  the  room  and  looking  round  him.  This  particular 
room  was  now  used  as  a  sort  of  lumber  place,  a  receptecle  for 
the  superfluous  or  useless  books  gradually  thrown  off  by  the 
great  collection  aU  around.  There  were  innumerable  volumes 
in  frayed  or  broken  bindings  lying  on  the  ground.  A  musty 
smell  hung  over  it  all;  the  gray  light  from  outside  which 
seemed  to  give  only  an  added  subtlety  and  charm  to  the  other 
portions  of  the  ancient  building  through  which  they  had  been 
moving,  seemed  here  triste  and  dreary.   Or  Langham  fancied 

^'^  He  passed  the  threshold  again  with  a  little  sigh,  and  saw 


286 


ROBERT  ELbMERE. 


suddenly  before  him  at  the  end  of  the  suite  of  rooms,  and 
framed  in  the  door-ways  facing  him,  an  engraving  of  a  Greuae 
picture— a  girl's  face  turned  over  her  shoulder,  the  hair  waving 
about  her  temples,  the  lips  parted,  the  teeth  gleaming  mirth 
and  provocation  and  tender  yielding  in  every  line.  Langham 
started,  and  the  blood  rushed  to  his  heart.  It  was  as  though 
Rose  herself  stood  there  and  beckoned  to  him. 

CHAPTER  XV. 

*^Now,  having  seen  our  sight,"  said  Robert,  as  they  left  the 
great  mass  of  Murewell  behind  them,  come  and  see  our  scan- 
dal. Both  run  by  the  same  proprietor,  if  you  please.  There  is 
a  hamlet  down  there  in  the  hollow  "  —and  he  pointed  to  a  gray 
spect  in  the  distance— ''which  deserves  a  royal  commission  all 
to  itself,  which  is  a  disgrace'''— and  his  tone,  warmed— "  to  any 
country,  any  owner,  any  agent !  It  is  owned  by  Mr.  Wendover 
and  I  see  the  pleasing  prospect  straight  before  me  of  beginning 
my  acquaintance  with  him  by  a  fight  over  it.  You  will  admit 
that  it  is  a  little  hard  on  a  man  who  wants  to  live  on  good  terms 
with  the  possessor  of  the  Murewell  library  to  have  to  open  re- 
lations with  him  by  a  fierce  attack  on  his  drains  and  Ms  pig- 
sties." 

He  turned  to  his  companion  with  a  half -rueful  spark  of  lau^-h- 
ter  in  his  gray  eyes.  Langham  hardly  caught  what  he  said. 
He  was  far  away  in  meditations  of  his  own. 

''An  attack,"  he  repeated  vaguely;  "  why  an  attack  ?"  ^ 

Robert  plunged  again  into  the  great  topic  of  w^hich  his  quick  | 
mind  was  evidently  full.    Langham  tried  to  listen,  but  was 
conscious  that  his  friend's  social  enthusiasms  bored  him  a  greafc  ' 
deal.    A-nd  side  by  side  with  the  consciousness  there  slid  in  a 
little  stinging  reflection  that  four  years  ago  no  talk  of  Elsmere's 
could  have  bored  him. 

"What's  the  matter  with  this  particular  place?"  he  asked, 
languidly,  at  last,  raising  his  eyes  toward  the  group  of  houses 
now  beginning  to  emerge  from  the  distance. 

An  angry  red  mounted  in  Robert's  cheek. 

"What  isn't  the*  matter  with  it  ?   The  houses,  which  were 
built  on  a  swamp  originally,  are  falhng  into  ruin;  fche  roofs,  the  ^_ 
drains,  the  accommodation  per  head,  are  all  about  equally  . 
scandalous.    The  place  is  harried  with  illness;  since  I  came 
there  has  been  both  fever  and  diphthoria  there.    They  are  al] 


I 


ROBERT  ELSMEEB.  237 


crippled  with  rheumatism,  but  that  they  think  nothmg  of;  the 
English  laborer  takes  rheumatism  as  quite  in  the  day's  bargam ! 
And  as  to  wce-the  vice  that  comes  of  mere  endless  persecuting 
opportunity-I  can  tell  you  one's  ideas  of  personal  responsi- 
bility get  a  good  deal  shaken  up  by  a  place  Uke  this.  And  1 
can  do  nothing.  I  brought  over  Henslowe  to  see  the  place,  and 
he  behaved  like  a  brute.  He  scoffed  at  all  my  complaints,  said 
that  no  landlord  would  be  such  a  fool  as  to  build  fresh  cottages 
on  such  a  site,  that  the  old  ones  must  just  be  allowed  to  go  to 
ruin-  that  the  people  might  live  in  them  if  they  chose,  or  turn 
out  of  them  if  they  chose.  Nobody  forced  them  to  do  either; 
it  was  their  own  lookout." 

"  That  was  true,"  said  Langham,  "  wasn't  it  ?" 

Eobert  turned  upon  him  fiercely. 

"  Ah'  you  think  it  so  easy  for  those  poor  creatures  to  leave 
their  homes,  their  workmg  places!  Some  of  them  have  been 
there  thirty  years.  They  are  close  to  the  two  or  three  farms 
that  employ  them,  close  to  the  osier  beds  which  give  them  extra 
earnings  in  the  spring,  li  they  were  turned  out,  there  is  noth- 
ing nearer  than  Murewell,  and  not  a  single  cottage  to  be  found 
there  I  don't  say  it  is  a  landlord's  duty  to  provide  more  cot- 
tages than  are  wanted;  but  if  the  labor  is  wanted  the  laborer 
should  be  decently  housed.  He  is  worthy  of  his  hire,  and  woe 
to  the  man  who  neglects  or  ill-treats  him !" 

Langham  could  not  help  smiling,  partly  at  the  vehemence  ot 
the  speech,  partly  at  the  lack  of  adjustment  between  his  friend  s 
mood  and  his  own.  He  braced  himself  to  take  the  matter 
more  seriously,  but  meanwhile  Eobert  had  caught  the  smile, 
and  his  angry  eyes  melted  at  once  into  laughter. 

"  There  I  am,  ranting  as  usual,"  he  said,  penitently.  "Took 
you  for  Henslowe,  I  suppose!  Ah,  well,  never  mind.  I  hear 
the  provost  has  another  book  on  the  stocks." 

So  they  diverged  into  other  things,  talking  politics  and  new 
books,  public  men  and  what  not,  till  at  the  end  of  a  long  and 
gradual  descent  through  wooded  ground,  some  two  miles  to  the 
north-west  of  the  park,  they  emerged  from  the  trees  beneath 
which  they  had  been  walking,  and  found  themselves  on  a  bridge, 
a  gray  sluggish  stream  flowing  beneath  them,  and  the  hamlet 
they  sought  rising  among  the  river  flats  on  the  further  side. 

"There,"  said  Eobert,  stopping,  "we  are  at  our  journey's 
end.  Now,  then,  what  sort  of  a  place  of  human  habitation  do 
you  call  that  V 


238 


ROBERT  ELSMERB. 


The  bridge  whereon  they  stood  crossed  the  main  channel  oji 
the  river,  which  just  at  that  point,  however,  parted  into  several 
branches,  and  came  meandering  slowly  down  through  a  little 
bottom  or  valley,  filled  with  osier  beds,  long  since  robbed  of 
their  year's  growth  of  shoots.  On  the  other  side  of  the  river, 
on  ground  all  but  level  with  the  osier  beds  which  interposed  be- 
tween them  and  the  stream,  rose  a  miserable  group  of  houses, 
huddled  together  as  though  theu'  bulging  walls  and  rotten  roofs 
could  only  maintain  themselves  at  all  by  the  help  and  support 
which  each  wretched  hovel  gave  to  its  neighbor.  The  mud  walls 
were  stained  with  yellow  patches  of  lichen,  the  paUngs  round  \ 
the  little  gardens  were  broken  and  ruinous.  Close  beside  them 
all  was  a  sort  of  open  drain  or  water-course,  stagnant  and 
noisome,  which  dribbled  into  the  river  a  little  above  the  bridge. 
Behind  them  rose  a  high  gravel  bank  edged  by  firs,  and  a  line  i 
of  oak-trees  against  the  sky.  The  houses  stood  in  the  shadow  i 
of  the  bank  looking  north,  and  on  this  gray,  lowering  day,  the 
dreariness,  the  gloom,  the  squalor  of  the  place  were  indescrib- 
able. 

''Well,  that^sa  God-forsaken  hole !"  said  Langham,  study- 
ing it,  his  interest  roused  at  last,  rather,  perhaps,  by  the  Ruys- 
dael-like  melancholy  and  picturesqueness  of  the  scene  than  by 
its  human  suggestiveness.  ''I  could  hardly  have  imagined  i 
such  a  place  existed  in  southern  England.  It  is  more  like  a  bit 
of  Ireland."  j 

'  'If  it  were  Ireland  it  might  be  to  somebody's  interest  to  ferret  I 
it  out,"  said  Robert,  bitterly.    "  But  these  poor  folks  are  out  of  \ 
the  world.    They  may  be  brutalized  with  impunity.    Oh,  such 
a  case  as  I  had  here  last  autumn !   A  young  girl  of  sixteen  or 
seventeen,  who  would  have  been  healthy  and  happy  anywhere 
else,  stricken  by  the  damp  and  the  poison  of  the  place,  dying  ' 
in  six  weeks,  of  complications  due  to  nothing  in  the  world  but 
preventable  cruelty  and  neglect !   It  was  a  sight  that  burned 
into  my  mind,  once  for  all,  what  is  meant  by  a  landlord's  re- 
sponsibiHty.  I  tried,  of  course,  to  move  her,  but  neither  she  nor 
her  parents- elderly  folk— had  energy  enough  for  a  change. 
They  only  prayed  to  be  let  alone.    I  came  over  the  last  evening 
of  her  life  to  give  her  the  communion.  '  Ah,  sir !'  said  the  mother  | 
to  me— not  bitterly— that  is  the  strange  thing,  they  have  so  lit-  | 
tie  bitterness— 'if  Mister  'Enslowe  would  just  'a  mended  that  ' 
bit  o'  roof  of  ours  last  winter,  Bessie  needn't  have  laid  in  the 


ROBEET  ELSMEEE.  239 

wet  SO  many  nights  as  she  did,  and  she  coughin'  fit  to  break 
your  heart,  for  all  the  things  yer  could  put  over  'er.'  "  ^ 

Eobert  paused,  his  strong  young  face,  so  vehemently  angry 
a  few  minutes  before,  tremulous  with  feeling.  Ah,  weU,"  he 
said  at  last,  with  a  long  breath,  moving  away  from  the  parapet 
of  the  bridge  on  which  he  ha^  been  leaning,  ''better  be  op- 
pressed than  oppressor,  any  day.  Now,  then,  I  must  deliver 
my  stores.  There's  a  child  here,  Catherine  and  I  have  been 
doing  our  best  to  pull  through  typhoid." 

They  crossed  the  bridge  and  turned  down  the  track  leadmg 
to  the  hamlet.  Some  planks  carried  them  across  the  ditch,  the 
main  sewer  of  the  community,  as  Eobert  pointed  out,  and  they 
made  their  way  through  the  filth  surrounding  one  of  the  near- 
esf  cottages. 

A  feeble  elderly  man,  whose  shaking  hmbs  and  saUow  blood- 
less skin  make  him  look  much  older  than  he  actually  was, 
opened  the  door  and  invited  them  to  come  in.  Eobert  passed 
on  into  an  inner  room,  conducted  thither  by  a  woman  who  had 
been  sitting  working  over  the  fire.  Langham  stood  irresolute ; 
but  the  old  man's  quavering  "kindly  take  a  chair,  sir;  you've 
come  a  long  way,"  decided  him,  and  he  stepped  in. 

Inside  the  hovel  was  miserable,  indeed.    It  belonged  to  that 
old  and  evil  type  which  the  efforts  of  the  last  twenty  years 
have  done  so  much  all  over  England  to'  sweep  away ;  four  mud 
walls,  inclosing  an  oblong  space  about  eight  yards  long,  divided 
into  two  unequal  portions  by  a  lath  and  plaster  partition,  with 
no  upper  story,  a  thatched  roof ,  now  entirely  out  of  repair,  and 
letting  in  the  rain  in  several  places,  and  a  paved  floor  little  bet- 
ter than  the  earth  itself,  so  large  and  cavernous  were  the  gaps 
between  the  stones.   The  dismal  place  had  no  small  adornmgs 
-none  of  those  little  superfluities  which,  however  ugly  and 
trivial,  are  still  so  precious  in  the  dwellings  of  the  poor,  as 
showing  the  existence  of  some  instinct  or  passion  which  is  not 
the  creation  of  the  sheerest  physical  need;  and  Langham,  as 
he  sat  down,  caught  the  sickening  marsh  smell  which  the  Ox- 
ford man,  accustomed  to  thQ  odors  of  damp  meadows  m  times 
of  ebbing  flood  and  festering  sun,  knows  so  well.   As  old  Mfl- 
som  began  to  talk  to  him  in  his  weak  tremulous  voice,  the 
visitor's  attention  was  irresistibly  held  by  the  details  about  him. 
Fresh  as  he  was  from  all  the  (delicate  sights,  the  harmonious 
colors  and  delightful  forms  of  the  squire's  house,  they  made  an 
Urmsually  sharp  impression  on  his  festidious  senses.  What 


240 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


does  human  life  become  lived  on  reeking  floors  and  under 
stifling  roofs  like  these?  What  strange  abnormal  deteriorations, 
physical  and  spiritual,  must  it  not  inevitably  undergo?  Lang- 
ham  felt  a  sudden  inward  movement  of  disgust  and  repulsion. 

For  heaven's  sake,  keep  your  superstitions!"  he  could  have 
cried  to  the  whole  human  race,  or  any  other  narcotic  that  a 
grinding  fate  has  left  you.  What  does  anything  matter  to  the 
mass  of  mankind  but  a  Httle  ease,  a  little  lightening  of  pressure 
on  this  side  or  on  that  ?" 

Meanwhile  the  old  man  went  maundering  on,  talking  of  the 
weather,  and  of  his  sick  child,  and  Mr.  Elsmere,"  with  a  kind 
of  listless  incoherence  which  hardly  demanded  an  answer, 
though  Langham  threw  in  a  word  or  two  here  and  there. 

Among  other  things  he  began  to  ask  a  question  or  two  about 
Robert's  predecessor,  a  certain  Mr.  Preston,  who  had  left  be- 
hind him  a  memory  of  amiable  evangelical  indolence. 
Did  you  see  much  of  him  ?"  he  asked. 

*'0h,  law,  no,  sir!"  replied  the  man,  surprised  into  some- 
thing like  energy.  "  Never  seed  'im  more  'n  once  a  year,  and 
sometimes  not  that !" 

''Was  he  liked  here  ?" 
Well,  sir,  it  was  like  this,  you  see.  My  wife,  she's  north- 
country,  she  is,  comes  from  Yorkshire ;  sometimes  she'd  used 
to  say  f  0  me :  '  Passon  'ee  ain't  much  good,  and  passon  'ee  ain't 
much  harm.  'Ee's  no  more  good  nor  more  'arm,  so  fer  as  I 
can  see,  nor  a  chip  in  a  basin  o'  parritch.'  And  that  was  just 
about  it,  sir,"  said  the  old  man,  pleased  for  the  hundredth  time 
with  his  wife's  by-gone  flight  of  metaphor  and  his  own  exact 
memory  of  it. 

As  to  the  rector's  tendance  of  his  child,  his  tone  was  very 
cool  and  guarded. 

''It  do  seem  strange,  sir,  as  nor  he  nor  Doctor  Grimes  'ull 
let  her  have  anything  to  put  a  bit  of  flesh  on  her,  nothin'  but 
them  messy  things  as  he  brings— mflk  an'  that.  An'  the  beef 
jelly— lor',  such  a  trouble !  Missis  Elsmere,  he  tells  my  wife, 
strains  all  the  stuff  through  a  cloth,  she  do ;  never  seed  any- 
thin'  like  it,  nor  my  wife  neither.  People  is  clever  nowadays," 
said  the  speaker,  dubiously.  Langham  realized  that,  in  this 
quarter  of  his  parish  at  any.rdre,  his  friend's  pastoral  vanity, 
if  he  had  any,  would  not  find  much  to  feed  on.  Nothing,  to 
judge  from  this  specimen  at  least,  greatly  affected  an  inhabi- 
tant of  Mile  End.  Gratitude,  responsiveness,  imply  health  and 


BOBEET  EliSMERE.  ^^^^ 


energy,  past  or  present.  The  only  constant  defense  which  the? 
poor  have  against  such  physical  conditions  as  those  which  pre- 
vailed at  Mile  End  is  apathy. 

As  they  came  down  the  dilapidated  steps  at  the  cottage  door 
Eobert  drew  in  with  avidity  a  long  draught  of  the  outer  air. 

"Ugh!"  he  said,  with  a  sort  of  groan,  ''that  bedroom [ 
Nothing  gives  one  such  a  sense  of  the  toughness  of  human  life 
as  to  see  a  child  recovering,  actually  recovering,  in  such  a  pes^^ 
tilential  den?  Father,  mother,  grown-up  son,  a  girl  of  thirteen, 
and  grandchild,  all  huddled  in  a  space  just  fourteen  feet  square. 
Langham!"  and  he  turned  passionately  on  his  companion, 
"  what  defense  can  be  found  for  a  man  who  lives  in  a  place  like 
Murewell  Hall,  and  can  take  money  from  human  beings  for  the 
use  of  a  sty  like  that?"  ,  .  ^  * 

Gently,  my  friend.  Probably  the  squire,  being  the  sort  of 
recluse  he  is,  has  never  seen  the  place,  or,  at  any  rate,  not  for 
years,  and  knows  nothing  about  it !" 

' '  More  shame  for  him !" 

'^True  in  a  sense,"  said  Langham,  a  little  dryly;  ''but  as 
you  may  want  hereafter  to  make  excuses  for  your  man,  and 
he  may  give  you  occasion,  I  wouldn't  begin  by  painting  him  to 
yourself  any  blacker  than  need  be." 

Eobert  laughed,  sighed  and  acquiesced.  "  I  am  a  hot-headed, 
impatient  kind  of  creature  at  the  best  of  times,"  he  confessed. 
"  They  tell  me  that  great  things  have  been  done  for  the  poor 
round  here  in  the  last  twenty  years.  Something  has  been  done, 
certainly.  But  why  are  the  old  ways,  the  old  evil  neglect  and 
apathy,  so  long,  so  terribly  long  in  dying?  This  social  progress 
of  ours  we  are  so  proud  of  is  a  clumsy  limping  jade  at  best !" 

They  prowled  a  little  more  about  the  hamlet,  every  step  al- 
most revealing  some  new  source  of  poison  and  disease.  Of 
their  various  visits,  however,  Langham  remembered  nothing 
afterward  but  a  little  scene  in  a  miserable  cottage,  where  they 
found  a  whole  family  party  gathered  round  the  midday  meal. 
A  band  of  puny,  black,  black-eyed  children  were  standing  or 
sitting  at  the  table.  The  wife,  confined  of  twins  three  weeks 
before,  sat  by  the  fire,  deathly  pale,  a  "  bad  leg"  stretched  out 
before  her  on  some  improvised  support,  one  baby  on  her  lap 
and  another  dark-haired  bundle  asleep  in  a  cradle  beside  her. 
There  was  a  pathetic,  pinched  beauty  about  the  whole  family. 
Even  the  tiny  twins  were  comparatively  shapely;  all  the  other 
children  had  delicate  transparent  skins,  large  eyes,  and  small 


242 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


colorless  mouths.  The  father,  a  picturesque,  handsorae  fellow 
looking  as  though  he  had  gypsy  blood  in  his  veins,  had  open 
the  door  to  their  knock.  Robert,  seeing  the  meal,  would  hav 
retreated  at  once,  in  spite  of  the  children's  shy  inviting  looks 
but  a  glance  past  them  at  the  mother's  face  checked  the  word 
of  refusal  and  apology  on  his  lips,  and  he  stepped  in. 

In  after  years  Langham  was  always  apt  to  see  him  in  imag 
ination  as  he  saw  him  then,  standing  beside  the  bent  figure  oi 
the  mother,  his  quick  pitiful  eyes  taking  in  the  pallor  and  ex- 
haustion of  face  and  frame,  his  hand  resting  instinctively  on 
the  head  of  a  small  creature  that  had  crept  up  beside  him,  hi^ 
look  all  attention  and  softness  as  the  woman  feebly  told  him 
some  of  the  main  facts  of  her  state.  The  young  rector  at  the 
moment  might  have  stood  for  the  modem  Man  of  Feeling,'' 
as  sensitive,  as  impressionable  and  as  free  from  the  burden  of 
self  as  his  eighteenth-century  .prototype. 

On  the  way  home  Robert  suddenly  remarked  to  his  compan- 1 
ion:  "Have  you  heard  my  sister-in-law  play  yet,  Langham?! 
What  did  you  think  of  it?'' 

"  Extraordinary!"  said  Langham,  briefly.  The  most  con- 
siderable gift  I  ever  came  across  in  an  amateur." 

His  olive  cheek  flushed  a  little  involuntarily.  Robert  threw 
a  quick  observant  look  at  him. 

"The  difficulty,"  he  exclaimed,  "is  to  know  what  to  do 
with  it!" 

"Why  do  you  make  the  difficulty?  I  gather  she  wants  to 
study  abroad.   What  is  there  to  prevent  it?" 

Langham  turned  to  his  companion  with  a  touch  of  asperity. 
He  could  not  stand  it  that  Elsmere  should  be  so  much  narrowed 
and  warped  by  that  wife  of  his,  and  her  prejudices.  Why 
should  that  gifted  creature  be  cribbed,  cabined,  and  confined 
in  this  way? 

"I  grant  you,"  said  Robert,  with  a  look  of  perplexity, 
"there  is  not  much  to  prevent  it." 

And  he  was  silent  a  moment,  thinking,  on  his  side,  very 
tenderly  of  all  the  antecedents  and  explanations  of  that  old- 
world  distrust  of  art  and  the  artistic  life  so  deeply  rooted  in 
his  wife,  even  though  in  practice  and  under  his  influence  she 
had  made  concession  after  concession. 

"The  great  solution  of  all,"  he  said  presently,  brightening, 
"  would  be  to  get  her  married.  I  don't  wonder  her  belongings 
dislike  the  notion  of  anjrthing  go  pretty  and  so  flighty  going  oft 


EGBERT  ELSMERE. 


243 


to  live  by  itself.  And  to  break  up  the  home  in  Whindale  would 
be  to  undo  everything  their  father  did  for  them,  to  defy  his 
most  solemn  last  wishes." 

To  talk  of  a  father's  wishes,  in  a  case  of  this  kind,  ten  years 
after  his  death,  is  surely  excessive?"  said  Langham,  with  dry 
interrogation;  then,  suddenly  recoUecting  himself,  "  I  beg  your 
pardon,  Elsmere.    I  am  interfering." 

Nonsense,"  said  Eobert,  brightly,  '^I  don't  wonder,  it 
seems  like  a  difficulty  of  our  own  making.   Like  so  many  dif- 
I  Acuities,  it  depends  on  character,  present  character,  by-gone 
I  character— I'   And  again  he  fell  musing  on  his  Westmoreland 
experiences,  and  on  the  intensity  of  that  Puritan  type  it  had 
revealed  to  him.    "  However,  as  I  said,  marriage  would  be  the 
I  natural  way  out  of  it." 

' '  An  easy  way,  I  should  think, "  said  Langham,  after  a  pause. 
''It  won't  be  so  easy  to  find  the  right  man.   She  is  a  young 
[  person  with  a  future,  is  Miss  Eose.    She  wants  somebody  in 
f  the  stream;  somebody  with  a  strong  hand  who  will  keep  her 
in  order  and  yet  give  her  a  wide  range ;  a  rich  man,  I  think— 
she  hasn't  the  ways  of  a  poor  man's  wife ;  but,  at  any  rate, 
some  one  who  will  be  proud  of  her,  and  yet  have  a  full  life  of 
his  own  in  which  she  may  share." 

''Your  views  are  extremely  clear,"  said  Langham,  and  his 
I    smile  had  a  touch  of  bitterness  in  it.    "  If  hers  agree,  I  proph- 
!    esy  you  won't  have  long  to  wait.    She  has  beauty,  talent,  charm 
—everything  that  rich  and  important  men  like." 

There  was  the  slightest  sarcastic  note  in  the  voice.  Robert 
winced.  It  was  borne  in  upon  one  of  the  least  worldly  of  mor- 
tals that  he  had  been  talking  like  the  veriest  schemer.  What 
vague,  quick  impulse  had  driven  him  on? 

By  the  time  they  emerged  again  upon  the  Murewell  Green 
the  rain  had  cleared  altogether  away,  and  the  autumnal  morn- 
ing had  broken  into  sunshine,  which  played  mistily  on  the 
sleeping  woods,  on  the  white  fronts  of  the  cottages,  and  the 
wide  green  where  the  rain-pools  glistened.  On  the  hill  leading 
to  the  rectory  there  was  the  flutter  of  a  woman's  dress.  As 
they  hurried  on,  afraid  of  being  late  for  luncheon,  they  saw 
that  it  was  Rose  in  front  of  them. 

Langham  started  as  the  slender  figure  suddenly  defined  it- 
self against  the  road.  A  tumult  within,  half  rage,  half  feeling, 
showed  itself  only  in  an  added  rigidity  of  the  finely  cut  feat- 
ure's. 

V 


244 


EGBERT  ELSMEBE. 


Rose  turned  directly  she  heard  the  steps  and  voices,  and  over 
the  dreaminess  of  her  face  there  flashed  a  sudden  brightness. 

''You  have  been  a  long  time !"  she  exclaimed,  saying  the  first 
thing  that  came  into  her  head,  joyously,  rashly,  like  the  child 
she  in  reality  was.  How  many  halt  and  maimed  has  Robert 
taken  you  to  see,  Mr.  Langham?" 

"  We  went  to  Murewell  first.  The  hbrary  was  well  worth 
seeing.  Since  then  we  have  been  a  parish  round,  distributing 
stores." 

Rose's  look  changed  in  an  instant.  The  words  were  spoken 
by  the  Langham  of  her  earliest  acquaintance.  The  man  who 
that  morning  had  asked  her  to  play  to  him  had  gone— vanished 
away. 

"  How  exhilarating  I"  she  said,  scornfully.  "  Don't  you  won- 
der how  anyone  can  ever  tear  themselves  away  from  the  coun- 
try?" 

*'Rose,  don't  be  abusive,"  said  Robert,  opening  his  eyes  at 
her  tone.  Then,  passing  his  arm  through  h^rs,  he  looked  ban- 
teringly  down  upon  her.  ''For  the  first  time  since  you  left 
the  metropohs  you  have  walked  yourself  into  a  color.  It's  be- 
coming—and it's  Murewell— so  be  civil  1" 

"Oh,  nobody  denies  you  a  high  place  in  milkmaids!"  she 
said,  with  her  head  in  air— and  they  went  oflE  into  a  minute's 
sparring. 

Meanwhile  Langham,  on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  walked 
up  slowly,  his  eyes  on  the  ground.  Once,  when  Rose's  eye 
caught  him,  a  shock  ran  through  her.  There  was  already  a 
look  of  slovenly  age  about  his  stooping  bookworm's  gait.  Her 
companion  of  the  night  before— handsome,  animated,  human— 
where  was  he?  The  girl's  heart  felt  a  singular  contraction. 
Then  she  turned  and  rent  herself,  and  Robert  found  her  more 
mocking  and  sprightly  than  ever. 

At  the  rectory  gate  Robert  ran  on  to  overtake  a  farmer  on 
the  road.  Rose  stooped  to  open  the  latch ;  Langham  mechan- 
ically made  a  quick  movement  for\^ard  to  anticipate  her. 
Their  fingers  touched;  she  drew  her  s  hastily  away  and  passed 
in,  an  erect  and  dignified  figure,  in  her  curving  garden  hat. 

Langham  went  straight  up  to  his  room,  shut  the  door,  and 
stood  before  the  open  window,  deaf  and  blind  to  everything 
save  an  inward  storm  of  sensation. 

"  Fool!   Idiot!"  he  said  to  himself  at  last,  with  fierce  stifled 


EOBEKT  ELSMEEE. 


245 


emphasis,  while  a  kind  of  dumb  fury  with  himself  and  circum- 
stances swept  through  him. 

That  he,  the  poor  and  solitary  student  whose  only  sources  of 
self-respect  lay  in  the  deliberate  limitations,  the  reasoned  and 
reasonable  renunciations  he  had  imposed  upon  his  life  should 
have  needed  the  reminder  of  his  old  pupil  not  to  fall  m  love 
with  his  brilliant,  ambitious  sister!  His  irritable  self -con- 
sciousness enormously  magnified  Elsmere's  motive  and  Els- 
mere's  words.  That  golden  vagueness  and  softness  of  temper 
which  had  possessed  him  since  his  last  sight  of  her  gave  place 
to  one  of  bitter  tension.  xt-  • 

With  sardonic  scorn  he  pointed  out  to  himself  that  his  imag- 
ination was  still  held  by,  his  nerves  were  still  thnllmg  under 
the  mental  image  of  a  girl  looking  up  to  him  as  no  woman  had 
ever  looked-a  girl,  white-armed,  white-necked-with  softened 
eyes  of  appeal  and  confidence.  He  bade  himself  mark  that 
during  the  whole  of  his  morning  walk  with  Eobert  down  to  its 
last  stage,  his  mind  had  been  really  absorbed  in  some  prepos- 
terous dream  he  was  now  too  self-contemptuous  to  analyze. 
Pretty  well  for  a  philosopher,  in  four  days!  What  a  ridicu- 
lous business  is  life-what  a  contemptible  creature  is  man,  how 
incapable  of  dignity,  of  consistency! 

At  luncheon  he  talked  rather  more  than  usual,  especially  on 
literary  matters  with  Eobert.  Eose,  too,  was  fully  occupied 
in  giving  Catherine  a  sarcastic  account  of  a  singing  lesson  she 
had  been  administering  in  the  school  that  morning.  Catherme 
winced  sometimes  at  the  tone  of  it. 

That  afternoon  Eobert,  in  high  spirits,  his  rod  over  his  shoul- 
der his  basket  at  his  back,  carried  off  his  guest  for  a  lounging 
afternoon  along  the  river.   Elsmere  enjoyed  these  fishing  ex- 
peditions like  a  boy.   They  were  his  holidays,  relished  all  the 
more  because  he  kept  a  jealous  account  of  them  with  his  con- 
science.  He  sauntered  along,  now  throwing  a  cunning  and  ef- 
fectual fly,  now  resting,  smoking  and  chattering,  as  the  fancy 
took  him.    He  found  a  great  deal  of  the  old  stimulus  and 
piquancy  in  Langham's  society,  but  there  was  an  occasional  irri- 
tability in  his  companion,  especiaUy  toward  himself  personally, 
which  puzzled  him.    After  awhile,  indeed,  he  began  to  feel 
himself  the  unreasonably  cheerful  person  which  he  evidently 
appeared  to  his  companion.   A  mere  ignorant  enthusiast,  ban- 
ished forever  from  the  realm  of  pure  knowledge  by  certain 
original  and  incorrigible  defects-after  a  few  hours'  talk  with 


246 


KOIiEKT  ELSMEKE. 


Langham  Hobert's  quick  insight  always  showed  him  soms 
image  of  himself  resembling  this  in  his  friend's  mind.  | 
At  last  he  turned  restive.  He  had  been  describing  to  Lang? 
ham  his  strong  acquaintance  with  the  Dissenting  minister  of 
the  place— a  strong,  coarse-grained  fellow  of  sensuous,  excita- 
ble temperament,  famous  for  his  noisy  conversion  meetings," 
and  for  a  gymnastic  dexterity  in  the  quoting  and  combining 
of  texts,  unrivaled  in  Eobert's  experience.  Some  remark  on 
the  Dissenter's  logic,  made,  perhaps,  a  little  too  much  in  the 
tone  of  the  Churchman  conscious  of  university  advantages, 
seemed  to  irritate  Langham. 

You  think  your  Anghcan  logic  in  dealing  with  the  Bible  so 
superior!  On  the  contrary,  I  am  all  for  your  Ranter.  He  is 
your  logical  Protestant.  Historically,  you  Anghcan  parsons 
are  where  you  are  and  what  you  are,  because  Enghshmen,  as 
whole,  hke  attempting  the  contradictory— like,  above  all,'  to 
eat  their  cake  and  have  it.  The  nation  has  made  you  and 
maintains  you  for  its  own  purposes.  But  that  is  another  mat- 
ter." 

Robert  smoked  on  a  moment  in  silence.  Then  he  flushed 
and  laid  down  his  pipe. 

"  We  are  all  fools  in  your  eyes,  I  know !  A  la  bonne  heure! 
I  have  been  to  the  university,  and  talk  what  he  is  pleased  to 
call  '  philosophy  '—therefore  Mr.  Colson  denies  me  faith.  You 
have  always,  in  your  heart  of  hearts,  denied  me  knowledge. 
But  I  cling  to  both  in  spite  of  you." 

There  was  a  ray  of  defiance,  of  emotion,  in  his  look.  Lang- 
ham met  it  in  silence. 

deny  you  nothing,"  he  said  at  last,  slowly.  *^0n  the 
contrary,  I  believe  you  to  be  the  possessor  of  all  that  is  best 
worth  having  in  life  and  mind." 

His  irritation  had  all  died  away.  His  tone  was  one  of  inde- 
scribable depression,  and  his  great  black  eyes  were  fixed  on 
Robert  with  a  melancholy  which  startled  his  companion.  By 
a  subtle  transition  Elsmere  felt  himself  touched  with  a  pang  of 
profound  pity  for  the  man  who  an  instant  before  had  seemed " 
to  pose  as  his  scornful  superior.  He  stretched  out  his  hand, 
and  laid  it  on  his  friend's  shoulder. 

Rose  spent  the  afternoon  'n  helping  Catherine  with  various 
parochial  occupations.  In  the  course  of  them  Catherine  asked 
many  questions  about  Long  Whindale,   Her  thoughts  clun^j 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


247 


to  the  hiUs,  to  the  gray  farm-houses,  the  rough  men  and  wom- 
en  inside  them.   But  Rose  gave  her  small  satisfaction. 

Poor  old  Jim  Backhouse  1"  said  Catherine,  sighing.  ^'Ag- 
nes tells  me  he  is  quite  bedridden  now. " 

''Well,  and  a  good  thing  for  John,  don't  you  think,"  said 
Rose,  briskly,  covering  a  parish  library  book  the  whUe  in  a  way 
which  made  Catherine's  fingers  itch  to  take  it  from  her,  and 
for  us?   It's  some  use  having  a  carrier  now. " 

Catherine  made  no  reply.  She  thought  of  the  ''noodle" 
fading  out  of  life  in  the  room  where  Mary  Backhouse  died;  she 
actually  saw  the  white  hair,  the  blurred  eyes,  the  palsied 
hands,  the  poor  emaciated  limbs  stretched  along  the  settle. 
Her  heart  rose,  but  she  said  nothing. 
''  And  has  Mrs.  Thornburgh  been  enjoying  her  summer?" 
"Oh!  I  suppose  so,"  said  Rose,  her  tone  indicating  a  quite 
measureless  indifference.  "She  had  another  young  Oxford 
man  staying  with  her  in  June— a  missionary— and  it  annoyed 
her  very  much  that  neither  Agnes  nor  I  would  intervene  to 
prevent  his  resuming  his  profession.  She  seemed  to  think  it 
was  a  question  of  saving  him  from  being  eaten,  and  apparently 
he  would  have  proposed  to  either  of  us." 

Catherine  could  not  help  laughing.    "I  suppose  she  still 
thinks  she  married  Robert  and  me." 
"Of  course.   So  she  did. " 

Catherine  colored  a  little,  but  Rose's  hard  lightness  of  tone 
was  unconquerable. 

"Or  if  she  didn't,"  Rose  resumed,  "nobody  could  have  the 
heart  to  rob  her  of  the  illusion.  Oh,  by  the  way,  Sarah  has 
been  under  warning  since  June!  Mrs.  Thornburgh  told  her 
desperately  that  she  must  either  throw  over  her  young  man, 
who  was  picked  up  drunk  at  the  vicarage  gate  one  night,  or 
vacate  the  vicarage  kitchen.  Sarah  cheerfully  accepted  her 
month's  notice,  and  is  still  making  the  vicarage  jams  and  walk- 
ing out  with  the  young  man  every  Sunday.  Mrs.  Thornburgh 
sees  thalf  it  will  require  a  convulsion  of  nature  to  get  rid  either 
of  Sarah  or  the  young  man,  and  has  succumbed. 

' '  And  the  Tysons  ?   And  that  poor  Walker  girl  ?" 

"Oh,  dear  me,  Catherine!"  said  Rose,  a  strange  dispropor- 
tionate flash  of  impatience  breaking  through.    "Every  one  in 
Long  Whindale  is  always  just  where  and  what  they  were  last 
year.   I  admit  they  are  born  and  die,  but  they  do  nothing  else 
a  decisive  kind." 


248  BOBERT  ELSMERE.  £ 

Catherine's  hands  worked  away  for  awhile,  then  she  laid  doym 

her  book  and  said,  lifting  her  clear  large  eyes  on  her  sister: 

"Was  there  7ievei^  a  time  when  you  loved  the  valley,  Rose?" 
Never!"  cried  Rose. 

Then  she  pushed  away  her  work,  and  leaning  her  elbows  om 
the  table,  turned  her  brilliant  face  to  Catherine.  There  was 
frank  mutiny  in  it. 

"By  the  way,  Catherine,  are  you  going  to  prevent  mamm&; 
from  letting  me  go  to  Berlin  for  the  winter?'' 

"And  after  Berhn,  Rose?"  said  Catherine,  presently,  her  gazei 
bent  upon  her  work.  ' 

'Mfter  Berlin?  What  next?"  said  Rose,  recklessly.  "WeU, 
after  Berlin  I  shall  try  to  persuade  mamma  and  Agnes,  I. sup- 
pose, to  come  and  back  me  up  in  London.    We  could  still  bet 
some  months  of  the  year  at  Burwood." 

Now  she  had  said  it  out.    But  there  was  something  else  ' 
surely  goading  the  girl  than  mere  intolerance  of  the  family  tra- 
dition.   The  hesitancy,  the  moral  doubt  of  her  conversation 
with  Langham,  seemed  to  have  vanished  wholly  in  a  kind  of 
acrid  self-assertion.  ,  , 

Catherine  felt  a  shock  sweep  through  her.  It  was  as  though 
all  the  pieties  of  life,  all  the  sacred  assumptions  and  self -surren- 
ders at  the  root  of  it,  were  shaken,  outraged  by  the  girl's  tone. 

"Do  you  ever  remember,"  she  said,  looking  up,  while  her 
voice  trembled,  "  what  papa  wished  when  he  was  dying?" 

It  was  her  last  argument.  To  Rose  she  had  very  seldom  used  1 
it  in  so  many  words.    Probably  it  seemed  to  her  too  strong, 
too  sacred,  to  be  often  handled.  '  1 

But  Rose  sprung  up,  and  pacing  the  little  work-room  with  | 
her  white  wrists  locked  behind  her,  she  met  that  argument  | 
with  aU  the  concentrated  passion  which  her  youth  had  for  years 
been  storing  up  against  it.     Catherine  sat  presently  over- 
whelmed, bewildered.    This  language  of  a  proud  and  tameless  I 
individuality,  this  modern  gospel  of  the  divine  right  of  self -de- 
velopment—her  soul  loathed  it !   And  yet,  since  that  night  in 
Marrisdale,  there  had  been  a  new  yearning  in  her  to  understand. 

Suddenly,  however,  Rose  stopped,  lost  her  thread.  Two 
figures  were  crossing  the  lawn,  and  their  shadows  were  thrown 
far  beyond  them  by  the  fast-disappearing  sun. 

She  threw  herself  down  on  her  chair  again  with  an  abrupt: 

"Do  you  see  they  have  come  back?  We  must  go  and  dress." 

And  as  she  spoke  she  was  conscious  of  a  new  sensation  alto-  !l 


EGBERT  ELSMERE. 


249 


gether— the  sensation  of  the  wild  creature  lassoed  on  the 
I  prairie,  of  the  bird  exchanging  in  an  instant  its  glorious  free- 
dom of  flight  for  the  pitiless  meshes  of  the  net.  It  was  stifling 
—her  whole  nature  seemed  to  fight  with  it. 

Catherine  rose  and  began  to  put  away  the  books  they  had 
been  covering.  She  had  said  almost  nothing  in  answer  to 
I  Eose's  tirade.  When  she  was  ready  she  came  and  stood  beside 
her  sister  a  moment,  her  lips  trembling.  At  last  she  stooped 
and  kissed  the  girl— the  kiss  of  deep,  suppressed  feeling— and 
went  away.   Rose  made  no  response. 

i  Unmusical  as  she  was,  Catherine  pined  for  her  sister's  music 
that  evening.  Robert  was  busy  in  his  study,  and  the  hours 
seemed  interminable.   After  a  little  difficult  talk  Langham 

I  subsided  into  a  book  and  a  corner.  But  the  only  words  of 
which  he  was  conscious  for  long  were  the  words  of  an  inner 

j  dialogue.   ' '  I  promised  to  play  for  her—  Go  and  offer  then  !— 

[  Madness  I  let  me  keep  away  from  her.  If  sha  asks  me,  of 
course  I  will  go.    She  is  much  too  proud,  and  already  she 

I  hinks  me  guilty  of  a  rudeness." 

I  Then,  with  a  shrug,  he  would  fall  to  his  book  again,  abomi- 
I  nably  conscious,  however,  all  the  while  of  the  white  figure  be- 
i  tween  the  lamp  and  the  open  window,  and  of  the  delicate  head 

and  cheek  lighted  up  against  the  trees  and  the  soft  August  dark. 
When  the  time  came  to  go  to  bed  he  got  their  candles  for 

the  two  ladies.   Rose  just  touched  his  hand  with  cool  fingers. 
I       Good-night,  Mr.  Langham.    You  are  going  in  to  smoke 
I  with  Robert,  I  suppose  ?" 

Her  bright  eyes  seemed  to  look  him  through.    Their  mock- 
i  ing  hostility  seemed  to  say  to  him,  as  plainly  as  possible :  ' '  Your 
I  purgatory  is  over— go,  smoke  and  be  happy  I" 
!      "I  will  go  and  help  him  wind  up  his  sermon,"  he  said,  with 

^n  attempt  at  a  laugh,  and  moved  away. 
Rose  went  upstairs,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  a  Greek  brow, 

and  a  pair  of  wavering,  melancholy  eyes,  went  before  her  in 
i  the  darkness,  chased  along  the  passages  by  the  hght  she  held. 

She  gained  her  room,  and  stood  by  the  window,  seized  again 
i  by  that  stifling  sense  of  catastrophe,  so  strange,  so  undefined. 

Then  she  shook  it  off  with  an  angry  laugh,  and  went  to  work 

to  see  how  far  her  stock  of  light  dresses  had  suffered  by  her 
i   London  dissipations. 


250  ROBEBT  ELSMERE.  - 

I 

CHAPTER  XYI.  f 

The  next  morning  after  breakfast  the  rectory  party  were  in 
the  garden — the  gentlemen  smoking,  Catherine  and  her  sister 
strolhng  arm-in-arm  among  the  flowers.  Catherine's  vague 
terrors  of  the  morning  before  had  all  taken  to  themselves 
wings.  It  seemed  to  her  that  Rose  and  Mr.  Langham  had 
hardly  spoken  to  each  other  since  she  had  seen  them  walking 
about  together.  Robert  had  already  made  merry  over  his  own 
alarms,  and  hers,  and  she  admitted  he  was  in  the  right.  As  to 
her  talk  with  Rose,  her  deep,  meditative  nature  was  slowly 
working  upon  and  digesting  it.  Meanwhile,  she  was  all  ten- 
derness to  her  sister,  and  there  was  even  a  reaction  of  pity  in 
her  heart  toward  the  lonely  skeptic  who  had  once  been  so  good, 
to  Robert. 

Robert  was  just  bethinking  himself  that  it  was  time  to  go  off 
to  the  school,  when  they  were  all  startled  by  an  unexpected 
visitor — a  short  old  lady,  in  a  rusty  black  dress  and  bonnet, 
who  entered  the  drive  and  stood  staring  at  the  rectory  party,  a 
tiny  hand  in  a  black  thread  glove  shading  the  sun  from  a  pair 
of  wrinkled  eyes. 

'^Mrs.  Darcy  !"  exclaimed  Robert  to  his  wife  after  a  mo- 
ment's perplexity,  and  they  walked  quickly  to  meet  her. 

Rose  and  Langham  exchanged  a  few  commonplaces  till  the 
others j'oined  them,  and  then  for  awhile  the  attention  of  every- 
body in  the  group  was  held  by  the  squire's  sister.  She  was 
very  small,  as  thin  and  light  as  thistle-down,  ill-dressed,  and 
as  communicative  as  a  babbling  child.  The  face  and  all  the 
features  were  extraordinarily  minute,  and,  moreover,  blanched 
and  etherealized  by  age.  She  had  the  elfish  look  of  a  little 
withered  fairy  godmother.  And  yet  through  it  all  it  was  clear 
that  she  was  a  great  lady.  There  were  certain  poses  and  gest- 
ures about  her,  which  made  her  thread  gloves  and  rusty  skirts 
seem  a  mere  whim  and  masquerade,  adopted,  perhaps,  deliber- 
ately, from  a  high  bred  love  of  congruity,  to  suit  the  country 
lanes. 

She  had  come  to  ask  them  all  to  dinner  at  the  Hall  on  the 
following  evening,  and  she  either  brought  or  devised  on  the 
spot  the  politest  messages  from  the  squire  to  the  new  rector, 
which  pleased  the  sensitive  Robert  and  silenced  for  the  mo- 
ment his  various  misgivings  as  to  Mr,  Weudover's  advent. 


EGBERT  ELSMERE. 


Then  she  stayed  ckattering,  studying  Eose  every  now  and  then 
out  of  her  strange  little  eyes,  restless  and  glancing  as  a  bird's, 
which  took  stock  also  of  the  garden,  of  the  flower-beds,  of 
Elsmere's  lanky  frame,  and  of  Elsmere's  handsome  friend  in 
the  background.  She  ^  was  most  odd  when  she  was  grateful, 
and  she  was  grateful  ior  the  most  unexpected  things.  Sh^ 
thanked  Elsmere  effusively  for  coming  to  live  there,  "  sacrifice 
ing  yourself  so  nobly  as  to  us  country  folk,"  and  she  thanked 
him,  with  an  appreciative  glance  at  Langham,  for  having  hi^ 
clever  friends  to  stay  with  him.  ^^The  squire  will  be  so 
pleased.  My  brother,  you  know,  is  very  clever;  oh,  yes, 
frightfully  clever!" 

And  then  there  was  a  long  sigh,  at  which  Elsmere  could 
hardly  keep  his  countenance. 

She  thought  it  particularly  considerate  of  them  to  have  beei^ 
to  see  the  squire's  books.  It  would  make  conversation  so  easy 
when  they  came  to  dinner. 

''Though  I  don't  know  anything  about  his  books.  He 
doesn't  like  women  to  talk  about  books.  He  says  they  only 
pretend— even  the  clever  ones.  Except,  of  course,  Madame  de 
Stael.  He  can  only  gay  she  was  ugly,  and  I  don't  deny  it.  But 
I  have  about  used  up  Madame  de  Stael,"  she  added,  dropping 
into  another  sigh  as  soft  and  light  as  a  child's. 

Eobert  was  charmed  with  her,  and  even  Langham  smiled. 
And  as  Mrs.  Darcy  adored  clever  men,"  ranking  them,  as  the 
London  of  her  youth  had  ranked  them,  only  second  to  per- 
sons of  birth,"  she  stood  among  them  beaming,  becoming  more 
and  more  whimsical  and  inconsequent,  more  and  more  deli- 
ciously  incalculable,  as  she  expanded.  At  last  she  fluttered  off, 
only,  however,  to  come  hurrying  back,  with  little,  short,  scud- 
ding steps,  to  implore  them  all  to  come  to  tea  with  her  as  soon 
as  possible  in  the  garden  that  washer  special  hobby ,  and  in  her 
last  new  summer-house. 

''I  build  two  or  three  every  summer,"  she  said.  ''Now, 
there  are  twenty-one!  Eoger  laughs  at  me,"  and  there  was  a 
momentary  bitterness  in  the  little  eerie  face,  "but  how  can 
one  live  without  hobbies?  That's  one— then  I've  two  more. 
My  album— oh,  you  will  all  write  in  my  album,  won't  you? 
When  I  was  young— when  I  was  maid  of  honor"— and  she 
drew  herself  up  slightly—"  everybody  had  albums.  Even  the 
dear  queen  herself  !  I  remember  how  she  made  Monsieur 
Guizot  write  in  it;  something  q^iie  stupid,  after  all.  Those 


252 


ROBERT  ELSMERE, 


hobbies— the  garden  and  the  album— are  quite  harmless,  aren't 
they?  They  hurt  nobody,  do  they?"  Her  voice  dropped  a 
little,  with  a  pathetic  expostulating  intonation  in  it,  as  of  one 
accustomed  to  be  rebuked. 

Let  me  remind  you  of  a  saying  of  Bacon's,"  said  Langham, 
studying  her,  and  softened  perforce  into  benevolence. 
Yes,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Darcy,  in  a  flutter  of  curiosity. 

' '  God  Almighty  first  planted  a  garden, "  he  quoted ;  ' '  and  in- 
deed, it  is  the  purest  of  all  human  pleasures." 

''Oh,  but  how  delightful  r  cried  Mrs.  Darcy,  clasping  her 
diminutive  hands  in  their  thread  gloves.  ''You  must  write 
that  in  my  album,  Mr.  Langham,  that  very  sentence;  oh,  how 
clever  of  you  to  remember  it !  What  it  is  to  be  clever  and 
have  a  brain !   But,  then— I've  another  hobby—" 

Here,  however,  she  stopped,  hung  her  head  and  looked  de- 
pressed. Eobert,  with  a  httle  ripple  of  laughter,  begged  her  to 
explain. 

"No,"  she  said,  plaintively,  giving  a  quick,  uneasy  look  at 
him,  as  though  it^ occurred  to  her  that  it  might  some  day  be  his 
pastoral  duty  to  admonish  her.  ^'No,  it's  wrong.  I  know  it 
is— only  I  can't  help  it.    Never  mind.    You'll  know  soon." 

And  again  she  turned  away,  when,  suddenly,  Eose  attracted 
her  attention,  and  she  stretched  out  a  thin,  white  bird-claw  of 
a  hand  and  caught  the  girl's  arm. 

"There  won't  be  much  to  amuse  you  to-morrow,  my  dear, 
and  there  ought  to  be— you're  so  pretty!"  Rose  blushed  furi- 
ously and  tried  to  draw  her  hand  away.  "  No,  no!  don't  mind, 
don't  mind.  I  didn't  at  your  age.  Well,  we'll  do  our  best! 
But  your  own  party  is  so  charming  r  and  she  looked  round  the 
little  circle,  her  gaze  stopping  specially  at  Langham  before  it 
returned  to  Rose.    "After  all,  you  will  amuse  each  other." 

Was  there  any  malice  in  the  tiny,  withered  creature?  Rose, 
unsympathetic  and  indifferent  as  youth  commonly  i-s  when  its 
own  affairs  absorb  it,  had  stood  coldly  outside  the  group  which 
*  was  making  much  of  the  squire's  sister.  Was  it  so  the  strange 
little  visitor  revenged  herself  ? 

At  any  rate  Rose  was  left  feeling  as  if  some  one  had  pricked 
her.  While  Catherine  and  Elsmere  escorted  Mrs.  Darcy  to  the 
gate  she  turned  to  go  in,  her  head  thrown  back  stag-Hke,  her 
cheek  still  burning.  Why  should  it  be  always  open  to  the  old 
to  annoy  the  young  with  impunity? 

Langham  watched  her  moimt  the  first  step  or  two ;  his  eye 


ROBEBT  ELSMERE. 


253 


traveled  up  the  slim  figure  so  instinct  with  pride  and  will— and 
something  in  him  suddenly  gave  way.    It  was  like  a  man  who 
feels  his  grip  relaxing  on  some  attacking  thing  he  has  heen 
holding  by  the  throat. 
He  followed  her  hastily. 

^^Must  you  go  in?  And  none  of  us  have  paid  our  respects 
yet  to  those  phloxes  in  the  back  garden?" 

Oh,  woman — flighty  woman!  An  instant  before,  the  girl, 
sore  and  bruised  in  every  fiber,  she  only  half  knew  why,  wa» 
thirsting  that  this  man  might  somehow  offer  her  his  neck  that 
she  might  trample  on  it.  He  offers  it,  and  the  angry  instinct 
wavers,  as  a  man  wavers  in  a  wrestling  match  when  his  oppo- 
nent unexpectedly  gives  ground.  She  paused,  she  turned  her 
white  throat.    His  eyes,  upturned,  met  hers. 

''The  phloxes,  did  you  say?"  she  asked,  coolly  re-descending 
the  steps.    *'  Then  round  here,  please." 

She  led  the  way,  he  followed,  conscious  of  an  utter  relaxa- 
tion of  nerve  and  will  which  for  the  moment  had  something 
i   intoxicating  in  it. 

"There  are  your  phloxes,"  she  said,  stopping  before  a  splen- 
did line  of  plants  in  full  blossom.  Her  self-respect  was  whole 
again;  her  spirits  rose  at  a  bound.  *'  I  don't  know  why  you  ad- 
mire them  so  much.  They  have  no  scent,  and  they  are  only 
pretty  in  the  lump,"  and  she  broke  off  a  spike  of  blossom, 
studied  it  a  Kttle  disdainfully,  and  threw  it  away. 

He  stood  beside  her,  the  southern  glow  and  life  of  which  it 
was  intermittently  capable  once  more  lighting  up  the  strange 
face. 

"  Give  me  leave  to  enjoy  everything  countrified  more  than 
usual,;'  ke  said.  "  After  this  morning  it  will  be  long  before  1 
see  the  true  country  again." 

He  looked,  smiling,  round  on  the  blue  and  white  brilliance 
of  the  sky,  clear  again  after  a  night  of  rain ;  on  the  sloping 
garden,  on  the  village  beyond,  on  the  hedge  of  sweet  peas  close 
beside  them,  with  its  blooms 

"  On  tiptoe  for  a  flight. 
With  wings  of  gentle  flush  o'er  delicate  white." 

Oh !  Oxford  is  countrified  enough,"  she  said,  indifferently, 
moving  down  the  broad  grass-path  whijsh  divided  the  garden 
into  two  equal  portions. 


254  .  ROBERT  ELSMERE. 

But  I  am  leaving  Oxford,  at  any  rate  for  a  fyear,"  he  said, 
quietly.    ' '  I  am  going  to  London. " 

Her  delicate  eyebrows  went  up.  ^'  To  London?"  Then,  in  a 
tone  of  mock  meekness  and  sympathy.  ' '  How  you  will  dislike 
it  I" 

''Dislike  it— why?" 

"Oh!  because  "—she  hesitated,  and  then  laughed  her  daring 
girlish  laugh — "because  there  are  so  many  stupid  people  in 
London  ;  the  clever  people  are  not  all  picked  out  like  prize  ap- 
ples, as  I  suppose  they  are  at  Oxford." 

' '  At  Oxford  ?"  repeated  Langham,  with  a  kind  of  groan.  '  'At 
Oxford?  You  imagine  that  Oxford  is  inhabited  only  by  clever 
people?" 

"  I  can  only  judge  by  what  I  see,"  she  said,  demurely.  "  Ev- 
ery Oxford  man  always  behaves  as  if  he  were  the  cream  of  the 
universe.  Oh!  I  don't  mean  to  be  rude,"  she  cried,  losing  for 
a  moment  her  defiant  control  over  herself,  as  though  afraid  of 
having  gone  too  far.  "  I  am  not  the  least  disrespectful,  really. 
When  you  and  Eobert  talk,  Catherine  and  I  feel  quite  as  hum- 
ble as  we  ought." 

The  words  were  hardly  out  before  she  could  have  bitten  the 
tongue  that  spoke  them.  He  had  made  her  feel  her  indiscre- 
tions of  Sunday  night  as  she  deserved  to  feel  them,  and  now 
after  three  minutes'  conversation  she  was  on  the  verge  of  fresh 
ones.  Would  she  never  grow  up,  never  behave  like  other  girls? 
That  word  humble  !   It  seemed  to  bum  her^memory. 

Before  he  could  possibly  answer  she  barred  the  way  by  a 
question  as  short  and  dry  as  possible — 

"  What  are  you  going  to  London  for?"  * 

"For  many  reasons,"  he  said,  shrugging  his  shoulders.  " I 
have  told  no  one  yet— not  even  Elsmere.  And  indeed  I  go  back 
to  my  rooms  for  awhile  from  here.  But  as  soon  as  Term  begins 
I  become  a  Londoner." 

They  had  reached  the  gate  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  and 
were  leaning  against  it.  She  was  disturbed,  conscious,  lightly 
flushed.  It  struck  her  as  another  gaucherie  on  her  part  that 
she  should  have  questioned  him  as  to  his  plans.  What  did  his 
life  matter  to  her? 

He  was  looking  away  from  her,  studying  the  half -ruined,  de- 
graded manor  bouse  spread  out  below  them.  Then  suddenly 
he  turned: 

If  I  could  imagine  for  a  moment  it  would  interest  you  to 


MOBERT  ELSMERE. 


255 


hear  my  reasons  for  leaving  Oxford,  I  could  not  flatter  myself 
I  you  would  see  any  sense  in  them.  I  hnow  that  Eobert  will  think 
them  moonshine;  nay,  more,  that  they  will  give  him  pain." 

He  smiled  sadly.    The  tone  of  gentleness,  the  sudden  breach 
I  in  the  man's  melancholy  reserve  affected  the  girl  beside  him  for 
;  the  second  time,  precisely  as  they  had  affected  her  the  first  time. 
The  result  of  twenty -four  hours'  resentful  meditation  turned 
,  out  to  be  precisely  nil.    Her  breath  came  fast,  her  proud  look 
;  I  melted,  and  his  quick  sense  caught  the  change  in  an  instant. 
'      Are  you  tired  of  Oxford?"  the  poor  child  asked  him,  almost 
shyly. 

I      Mortally!"  he  said,  still  smiling.    "  And  what  is  more  im- 
i  portant  still,  Oxford  is  tired  of  me.    I  have  been  lecturing  there 
for  ten  years.    They  have  had  more  than  enough  of  me." 
I    **0h!  but  Robert  said—"  began  Eose,  impetuously,  then 

'  I  stopped,  crimson,  remembering  many  things  Robert  had  said. 

'  '  *^That  I  helped  him  over  a  few  stiles?"  returned  Langham, 
calmly.  Yes,  there  was  a  time  when  I  was  capable  of  that— 
there  was  a  time  when  I  could  teach,  and  teach  with  pleasure.'' 
He  paused.    Rose  could  have  scourged  herself  for  the  tremor 

;  she  felt  creeping  over  her.  Why  should  it  be  to  her  so  new  and 
strange  a  thing  that  a  man,  especially  a  man  of  these  years  and 
this  cahber,  should  confide  in  her,  should  speak  to  her  intimate- 
ly of  himself?  After  all,  she  said  to  herself,  angrily,  with  a  ter- 
rified sense  of  importance,  she  was  a  child  no  longer,  though  her 
mother  and  sisters  would  treat  her  as  one.  When  we  were 
chatting  the  other  night,"  he  went  on,  turning  to  her  again  as 
he  stood  leaning  on  the  gate,  do  you  know  what  it  was  struck 
tne  most?" 

His  tone  had  in  it  the  most  delicate,  the  most  friendly  defer- 
ence.   But  Rose  fiushed  furiously. 

''That  girls  are  very  ready  to  talk  about  themselves,  I  im- 
agine,"  she  said,  scornfully. 

*'  Not  at  all !  Not  for  a  moment !  No,  but  it  seemed  to  me 
so  pathetic,  so  strange  that  anybody  should  wish  for  anything 
so  much  as  you  wished  for  the  musician's  life." 

And  you  never  wished  for  anything?"  she  cried, 
j    ''  When  Elsmere  was  at  college, "  he  said,  smiling,  "  I  believe 
j  I  wished  he  should  get  a  first  class.  This  year  I  have  certainly 
I  wished  to  say  good-bye  to  St,  Anselm's,  and  to  turn  my  back 
for  good  and  all  on  my  men.    I  can't  remember  that  T  have 
wished  for  anything  else  for  six  years." 


KOBEliT  ELSMEfiE. 


She  looked  at  him  perplexed.  Was  his  manner  merely  lai 
guid,  or  was  it  from  him  that  the  emotion  she  felt  invadia 
herself  first  started  ?  She  tried  to  shake  it  off. 

And  I  am  just  a  bundle  of  wants/'  she  said,  half  mocl! 
ingly.  ^'Generally  speaking,  I  am  in  the  condition  of  bein' 
ready  to  barter  all  I  have  for  eomo  folly  or  other— one  in  th 
morning,  another  in  the  afternoon.  What  have  you  to  say  t 
such  people,  Mr.  Langham  V 

Her  eyes  challenged  him  mPtgnificently,  mostly  out  of  shee| 
nervousness.    But  the  face  they  rested  on  seemed  suddenly  t 
turn  to  stone  before  her.    The  life  died  out  of  it.   It  grew  sti  '\ 
and  rigid. 

"  Nothing,''  he  said,  quietly.  "Between  them  and  me  ther 
is  a  great  gulf  fixed.  I  watch  them  pass,  and  I  say  to  mysell 
'  There  are  the  Uvmg—that  is  how  they  look,  how  they  speat 
Eealize  once  for  all  that  you  have  nothing  to  do  with  therr 
Life  is  theirs— belongs  to  them.  You  are  already  outside  i1 
Go  your  way,  and  be  a  specter  among  the  active  and  the  happ; 
TiO  longer."  ' 

He  leaned  his  back  against  the  gate.  Did  he  see  her  ?  Wa 
-le  conscious  of  her  at  ail  in  this  rare  impulse  of  speech  whicl 
had  suddenly  overtaken  one  of  the  most  withdrawn  an< 
silent  of  human  beings  ?  All  her  airs  dropped  off  her;  a  kin< 
of  fright  seized  her,  and  involuntarily  she  laid  her  hand  on  hi 
arm. 

Don't— don't — Mr.  Langham  !  Oh,  don't  say  such  things 
Why  shoidd  you  be  so  unhappy  ?  Why  should  you  talk  so 
Can  no  one  do  anything  ?  Why  do  you  live  so  much  aJone 
Is  there  no  one  you  care  about  ?" 

He  turned.  What  a  vision  !  His  artistic  sense  absorbed  i  ' 
in  an  instant — the  beautiful  tremulous  lip,  the  drawn  whit< 
brow.  For  a  moment  he  drank  in  the  pity,  the  emotion,  o 
those  eyes.  Then  a  movement  of  such  self -scorn  as  even  h< 
had  never  felt  sweep  through  him.  He  gently  moved  away 
her  hand  dropped. 

*'Miss  Leyburn,"  he  said,  gazing  at  her,  his  olive  face  sin 
gularly  pale,  ' '  don't  waste  your  pity  on  me,  for  Heaven's  sake 
Some  madness  made  me  behave  as  I  did  just  now.  Years  ag( 
the  same  sort  of  idiocy  betrayed  me  to  your  brother;  never  be 
fore  or  since.  I  ask  your  pardon,  humbly,"  and  his  ton( 
seemed  to  scorch  her,  "that  this  second  fit  of  ranting  shoulc 
have  seized  me  in  your  presence." 


ROUEirf  ELSMKRE. 


25? 


But  he  could  not  keep  it  up.    The  inner  upheaval  had  gone 
too  far.   He  stopped  and  looked  at  her— piteously,  the  features 
quivering.    It  was  as  though  the  man's  whole  nature  had  for 
the  moment  broken  up,  become  disorganized.    She  could  not 
bear  ifc.   Some  ghastly  infirmity  seemed  to  have  been  laid  bare 
to  her.   She  held  out  both  her  hands.    Swiftly  he  caught  them, 
stooped,  kissed  them,  let  them  go.   It  was  an  extraordinary 
scene— to  both  a  kind  of  life-time. 
Then  he  gathered  himself  together  by  a  mighty  effort. 
''That  was  adorable  of  you,"  he  said,  with  a  long  breath. 
''But  I  stole  it— I  despise  myself.    Why  should  you  pity  me  ? 
. ,  What  is  there  to  pity  me  for  ?   My  troubles,  such  as  I  have, 
v||are  my  own  making— every  one." 

And  belaid  a  sort  of  vindictive  emphasis  on  the  words.  The 
tears  of  excitement  were^in  her  eyes. 

"Won't  you  let  me  be  your  friend  ?"  she  said,  trembling, 
with  a  kind  of  reproach.  "  I  thought— the  other  night- we 
were  to  be  friends.    Won't  you  tell  me—" 

"  More  of  yourself  ?"  her  eyes  said,  but  her  voice  failed  her. 
And  as  for  him,  as  he  gazed  at  her,  all  the  accidents  of  circum- 
stance, of  individual  character,  seemed  to  drop  from  her.  He 
;[ forgot  the  difference  of  years;  he  saw  her  no  longer  a.«  she  was 
r— a  girl  hardly  out  of  the  school-room,  vain,  ambitious  ianger- 
HiOusly  responsive,  on  whose  crude,  romantic  sense  he  vas  wan- 
Ijtonly  playing;  she  was  to  him  pure  beauty,  purewompoi.  For 
one  tumultuous  moment  the  cold  critical  instinct  which  had 
been  for  years  draining  his  life  of  all  its  natural  energies  was 
powerless.    It  was  sweet  to  yield,  to  speak,  as  it  h^  never 
1 ;  been  sweet  before. 

:  :  So,  leaning  over  the  gate,  he  told  her  the  story  of  his  life,  of 
his  cramped  childhood  and  youth,  of  his  brief  moment  of  hap- 
jpiness  and  success  at  college,  of  his  first  attempts  to  make  him- 
Iself  a  power  among  younger  men,  of  the  gradual  dismal  failure 
of  all  his  efforts,  the  dying  down  of  desire  and  ambitio^a.  From 
the  general  narrative  there  stood  out  little  pictures  of  individual 
persons  or  scenes,  clear  cut  and  masterly— of  his  father,  the 
Gainsborough  church-warden ;  of  his  Methodistical  mother, 
who  had  all  her  life  lamented  her  own  beauty  as  a  special  snare 
of  Sa^n,  and  who  since  her  husband's  death  had  refused  to  see 
her  son  on  the  ground  Uat  his  opinions  "  had  vexed  his  father;'* 
of  his  first  ardent  worship  of  knovv^Iedge,  and  passion  to  com- 
municate it;  and  of  the  first  intuitions  in  lecture  face  to  ^ace. 


258 


ROBBUT  ELSMEBE, 


with  an  under-graduate,  alone  in  college-rooms,  sometimes  alonisf 
on  Alpine  heights,  of  something  cold,  impotent  and  baffling  in 
himself,  v^hich  was  to  stand  forever  between  him  and  action,  be-' 
tween  him  and  human  affection ;  the  growth  of  the  critical  pes- 
simist sense  which  laid  the  ax  to  the  root  of  enthusiasm  after 
enthusiasm,  friendship  after  friendship— which  made  other  men 
feel  him  inhuman,  intangible,  a  skeleton  at  the  feast;  and  the 
persistence  through  it  all  of  a  kind  of  hunger  for  life  and  its 
satisfactions,  which  the  will  was  more  and  more  powerless  to 
satisfy ;  all  these  Langham  put  into  words  with  an  extraordinary 
magic  and  delicacy  of  phrase.  There  was  something  in  him 
which  found  a  kind  of  pleasure  in  the  long  analysis,  which  took 
pains  that  it  should  be  infinitely  well  done. 

Eose  followed  iim  breathlessly.  If  she  had  known  more  of 
literature  she  would  have  reahzed  that  she  was  witnessing  a 
masterly  dissection  of  one  of  those  many  morbid  growths  of 
which  our  nineteenth  century  psychology  is  full.  But  she  was  i 
anything  but  literary,  and  she  could  not  analyze  her  excitement. 
The  man's  physical  charm,  his  melancholy,  the  intensity  of  what 
he  said,  affected,  unsteadied  her  as  music  was  apt  to  affect  her. 
And  through  it  all  there  was  the  strange  girhsh  pride  that  this 
should  have  befallen  her  ;  a  first  crude  intoxicating  sense  of  the 
power  over  human  lives  which  was  to  be  hers,  mingled  with  a 
desperate  anxiety  to  be  equal  to  the  occasion,  to  play  her  part 
well. 

''So  you  see,"  said  Langham  at  last,  with  a  great  effort  (tc 
do  him  justice)  to  climb  back  on  to  some  ordinary  level  of  con- 
versation, *'  all  these  transcendentalisms  apart,  I  am  about  the 
most  unfit  man  in  the  world  for  a  college  tutor.  The  under- 
graduates'regard  me  as  a  shilly-shallying  pedant.  On  my  part, ' 
he  added  dryly,  ' '  I  am  not  slow  to  retaliate.  Every  term  I  hv€ 
I  find  the  young  man  a  less  interesting  animal.  I  regard  the 
whole  university  system  as  a  wretched  sham.  Kno  wledge !  II 
has  no  more  to  do  with  knowledge  than  my  boots. 

And  for  one  curious  instant  he  looked  out  over  the  village, 
his  fastidious  scholar's  soul  absorbed  by  some  intellectual  irrita- 
tion, of  which  Eose  understood  absolutely  nothing.  She  stood 
bewildered,  silent,  longing  childishly  to  speak,  to  influence 
him,  but  not  knowing  what  cue  to  take. 

**And  then — "he  went  on  presently  (but  was  the  strange 
being  speaking  to  her?)— ''so  long  as  I  stay  there,  worrying 
those  about  me,  and  eating  my  own  heart  out,  I  am  cut  ofl 


I ROBERT  ELSMERB.  259 
from  the  only  Kfe  that  might  be  mine,  that  I  might  find  the 
strength  to  live." 

The  words  were  low  and  deliberate.  After  his  moment  of 
passionate  speech,  and  hers  of  passionate  sympathy,  ^he  began 
to  feel  strangely  remote  from  him.' 

Do  you  mean  the  life  of  the  student?"  she  asked  him  after 
a  pause,  timidly. 
Her  voice  recalled  him.   He  turned  and  smiled  at  her. 

Of  the  dreamer,  rather." 
And  as  her  eyes  still  questioned,  as  he  was  still  moved  by 
the  spell  of  her  responsiveness,  he  let  the  new  wave  of  feehng 
break  in  words.    Vaguely  at  first,  and  then  with  a  growing 
flame  and  force,  he  fell  to  describing  to  her  what  the  Hfe  of 
thought  may  be  to  the  thinker,  and  those  marvelous  moments 
'  jwhich  belong  to  that  life  when  the  mind  which  has  divorced  itself 
-  ifrom  desire  and  sense  sees  spread  out  before  it  the  vast  realms 
^  pf  knowledge,  and  feels  itself  close  to  the  secret  springs  and 
sources  of  being.    And  as  he  spoke,  his  language  took  an  ampler 
bum,  the  element  oi  smallness  which  attaches  to  all  mere  per- 
sonal complaint  vanished,  his  words  flowed,  became  eloquent, 
inspired,  till  the  bewildered  child  beside  him,  warm  through 
md  through  as  she  was  with  youth  and  passion,  felt  for  an  in- 
stant by  sheer  fascinated  sympathy  the  cold  spell,  the  ineffable 
prestige,  of  the  thinker's  voluntary  death  in  life, 
i  But  only  for  an  instant.    Then  the  natural  sense  of  chill 
f  bmote  her  to  the  heart. 

t  "  You  make  me  shiver, "  she  cried,  interrupting  him.  ^ '  Have 
Huhose  strange  things— I  don't  understand  them — made  you 

happy?  Can  they  make  any  one  happy?   Oh,  no,  no  I  Hap- 

jpiness  is  to  be  got  from  living,  seeing,  experiencing,  making 
>  iMends,  enjoying  nature !   Look  at  the  world,  Mr.  Langham 

she  said,  with  bright  cheeks,  half  smiling  at  her  own  magnilo- 
1  l^uence,  her  hand  waving  over  the  view  besore  them.  What 

Lias  it  done  that  you  should  hate  it  so?  If  you  can't  put  up  with 
t  jpeople  you  might  love  nature.  I  —I  can't  be  content  with  nature, 
i  [because  I  want  some  life  first.  Up  in  Whindale  there  is  too  much 
•  Inature,  not  enough  life.  But  if  I  had  got  through  life— if  it  had 
:  disappointed  me — then  I  should  love  nature.   I  keep  saying  to 

the  mountains  at  home:  *Not  now,  not  now;  I  want  some- 
!i  thing  else,  but  afterward  if  I  can't  get  it,  or  if  I  get  too  much 
ifi|of  it,  why  then  I  will  love  you,  live  with  you.  You  are  my  sec- 
4 bud  string,  my  reserve.   You— and  art— and  poetry,' " 


260 


ROBEKT  ELSMERE. 


**But  everything  depends  on  feeling,"  he  said,  softly,  btf^ 
lightly,  as  though  to  keep  the  conversation  from  sUpping  bad 
into  those  vague  depths  it  had  emerged  from ;  and  if  one  hai 
forgotten  how  to  feel— if  when  one  sees  Or  hears  somethin| 
beautiful  that  used  to  stu^  one,  one  can  only  say :  '  I  remembei 
it  moved  me  once  l'~if  f eehng  dies,  like  hf e,  like  physical  force 
but  prematurely,  long  before  the  rest  of  the  man  !" 

She  gave  a  long  quivering  sigh  of  passionate  antagonism.  , 

'^Oh,  I  cannot  imagine  itl"  she  cried.  shall  feel  to  my 
/ai^thour.''  Then,  after  a  pause,  in  another  tone:  '*But,  Mr 
I^ngham,  you  say  music  excites  you,  Wagner  excites  you?"  - 

•'Yes,  a  sort  of  strange  second  life  I  can  still  get  out  o» 
music,"  he  admitted,  smiling. 

"Well,  then,"  and  she  ]ooked  at  him  persuasively,  '^whj 
not  give  yourself  up  to  music?  It  is  so  easy— so  httle  troubkl 
to  one's  self— it  just  takes  you  and  carries  yoy  away." 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  Langham  became  conscious— proba! 
bly  through  these  admonitions  of  hers— that  the  situation  hac 
absurdity  in  it. 

It  is  not  my  m^f/e?',"  he  said  hastily.  The  self  that  en 
joys  music  is  an  outer  self,  and  can  only  bear  with  it  for  a  shon  j 
time.  No,  Miss  Leybum,  I  shall  leave  Oxford,  the  college  wil 
sing  a  Te  Deum,  I  shall  settle  down  in  London,  I  shaU  keep  f 
big  book  going,  and  cheat  the  years,  after  all,  I  suppose,  sd 
weU  as  most  people."  I 

**And  you  will  know,  you  will  remember,"  she  said,  falterl 
ing,  reddening,  her  womanliness  forcing  the  words  out  of  herl 
**that  you  have  friends:  Eobert— my  sister— all  of  us?"  I 

He  faced  her  with  a  httle  quick  movement.  And  as  theiil 
eyes  met,  each  was  struck  once  more  with  the  personal  beauty  I 
of  the  other  His  eyes  shone— their  black  depths  seemed  al  i 
tenderness. 

I  will  never  forget  this  visit,  this  garden,  this  hour,"  h< 
said,  slowly,  and  they  stood  looking  at  each  other.   Rose  fel 
herself  swept  off  her  feet  into  a  world  of  tragic  mysteiioui 
emotion.    She  all  but  put  her  hand  into  his  again,  asking  hin 
childishly  to  hope,  to  be  consoled'    But  the  maidenly  impulse  I 
restrained  her,  and  once  more  he  leaned  on  the  gate,  burying  I 
his  face  in  his  hands.  I 
Suddenly  he  felt  himself  utterly  tired,  relaxed.    Strong  nerv  f 
ous  reaction  set  in.    What  had  all  this  scene,  this  tragedy,  bee>  i 
about?  And  then  in  another  instant  was  that  sense  of  the  n  j 


BOBEBT  ELSMERE. 


26] 


H  Jdiculous  again  clamoring  to  be  heard.  He  -  the  man  of  thirty- 
five — confessing  himself,  making  a  tragic  scene,  playing  Man- 
fred or  Cain  to  this  adorable^  half-fledged' creature,  whom  he 
had  known  five  days !  Supposing  Elsmere  had  been  there  to 
hear— Elsmere  with  his  sane  eye,  his  laugh !  As  he  leaned  over 
fthe  gate  he  found  himself  quivering  with  impatience  to  be  away 
i—by  himself —out  of  reach— the  critic  in  him  making  the  most 
bitter  remorseless  mock  of  all  these  heroics  and  despairs  the 
other  seK  had  been  indulging  in.  But  for  the  life  of  him  he 
could  not  find  a  word  to  say — amove  to  make.  He  stood hesi- 
itating,  gauche,  as  usual. 

*^Do  you  know,  Mr.  Langham,"  said  Rose,  lightly,  by  his 
side,    that  there  is  no  time  at  all  left  for  you  to  give  me  good 

>  advice  in?  That  is  an  obligation  still  hanging  over  you.  I 
don't  mean  to  release  you  from  it,  but  if  I  don't  go  in  now  and 
finish  the  covering  of  those  library  books,  the  youth  of  Mure- 
iwell  will  be  left  without  any  literature  till  Heaven  knows 

Mwhen!" 

He  could  have  blessed  her  for  the  tone,  for  the  escape  into 
%  Icommon  mundanity. 

i\   **Hang  literature— hang  the  parish  library!"  he  said,  with 
I  la  laugh  as  he  moved  after  her.   Yet  his  real  inner  feeling 
i  itoward  that  parish  library  was  one  of  infinite  friendliness. 
$1      Hear  these  men  of  letters!"  she  said,  scornfully.   Bui  she 

was  happy ;  there  was  a  glow  on  her  cheek. 

I  A  bramble  caught  her  dress ;  she  stopped  and  laid  her  white 
I  hand  to  it,  but  in  vain.    He  knelt  in  an  instant,  and  betwe^rt 

them  they  wrenched  it  away,  but  not  till  those  soft  sHm  finger.'^' 
•  had  several  times  felt  the  neighborhood  of  his  brown  ones,  anc? 
'  tiU  there  had  flown  through  and  through  him  once  more,  as  she? 
I  f  stooped  over  him,  the  consciousness  that  she  was  young,  tha^ 

she  was  beautiful,  that  she  had  pitied  him  so  sweetly,  tha-t 
'  they  were  alone. 
**Eose!" 

i     It  was  Catherine  calling— Catherine,  who  stood  at  the  end 

si  i  of  the  grass-path,  with  eyes  all  indignation  and  alarm. 

^1    Langham  rose  quickly  from  the  ground. 

^  I    He  felt  as  though  the  gods  had  saved  him— or  damned  him— 

J  i  which? 


262 


EOBEBT  ELSMEBB. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

MUREWELL  Eectory  during  the  next  forty-eight  hours  w 
the  scene  of  much  that  might  have  been  of  interest  to  a  ps 
chologist  gifted  with  the  power  of  divining  his  neighbors. 

In  the  first  place  Catherine's  terrors  were  all  alive  agai 
Robert  had  never  seen  her  so  moved  since  those  days  of  stor 
and  stress  before  their  engagement. 

**I  can  not  bear  it!"  she  said  to  Robert  at  night  in  tbi 
room.  I  can  not  bear  it !  I  hear  it  always  in  my  ears :  '  Wh 
hast  thou  done  with  thy  sister?'  Oh,  Robert,  don't  min 
dear,  though  he  is  your  friend.  My  father  would  have  shrui 
from  him  with  horror.  An  alien  from  the  household  of  fait) 
An  enemy  to  the  Cross  of  Christr 

She  flung  out  the  words  with  low,  intense  emphasis  ai 
frowning  brow,  standing  rigid  by  the  window,  her  han< 
locked  behind  her.  Robert  stood  by  her,  much  perplexed,  fet 
ing  himself  a  good  deal  of  a  culprit,  but  inwardly  conscioi 
that  he  knew  a  great  deal  more  about  Langham  than  she  did. 

*'My  dear  wife,"  he  said  to  her,  ''I  am  certain  Langhai 
has  no  intention  of  marrying." 

*'Then  more  shame  for  him!"  cried  Catherine,  flushinj 
'  *  They  could  not  have  looked  more  conscious,  Robert,  when 
found  them  together,  if  he  had  just  proposed." 

What,  in  five  days?"  said  Robert,  more  than  half  incline 
to  banter  his  wife.  Then  he  fell  into  meditation  as  CatheriD 
made  no  answer.  ''I  believe  with  men  of  that  sort,"  he  sai 
at  last,  "relations  to  women  are  never  more  than  half  real- 
always  more  or  less  literature — acting.  Langham  is  tasting  a 
experience,  to  be  bottled  up  for  future  use." 

It  need  hardly  be  said,  however,  that  Catherine  got  sma 
consolation  out  of  this  point  of  view.  It  seemed  to  her  Robei 
did  not  take  the  matter  quite  rightly. 

After  all,  darling,"  he  said  at  last,  kissing  her,  *^you  ca 
act  dragon  splendidly ;  you  have  already — so  can  I.    And  yo 
really  cannot  make  me  believe  in  anything  very  tragic  in 
week." 

But  Catherine  was  conscious  that  she  had  already  played  th 
dragon  hard,  to  very  little  purpose.  In  the  forty  hours  tha 
intervened  between  the  scene  in  the  garden  and  the  squire's  dir 
aer-party,  Robert  was  always  wanting  to  carry  off  Langham 


ROBERT  £:LSMERB. 


26S 


■feherine  was  always  asking  Rose's  help  in  some  household 
Rainess  or  other.  In  vain.  Langham  said  to  himself,  calmly 
[his  time,  that  Elsmere  and  his  wife  were  making  a  f ooUsh  mis- 
kke  in  supposing  that  his  friendship  with  Miss  Leyburn  was 
I ny thing  to  be  alarmed  about,  that  they  would  soon  be  amply 
[onvinced  of  it  themselves,  and  meanwhile  he  should  take  his 
wn  way.  And  as  for  Rose,  they  had  no  sooner  turned  back 
ill  three  from  the  house  to  the  garden  than  she  had  divined 
'verything  in  Catherine's  mind,  and  set  herself  against  her  sis- 
jer  with  a  willful  force  in  which  many  a  past  irritation  found 
xpression. 

How  Catherine  hated  the  music  of  that  week !  It  seemed  to 
iier  she  never  opened  the  drawing-room  door  but  she  saw  Lang- 
kam  at  the  piano,  his  head  with  its  crown  of  glossy,  curling 
Ijilack  hair,  and  his  eyes  lighted  with  unwonted  gleams  of  laugh- 
er and  sympathy,  turned  toward  Rose,  who  was  either  chatting 
yildly  to  him,  mimicking  the  airs  of  some  professional,  or  tak- 
tig  olf  the  ways  of  some  famous  teacher;  or  else,  which  was 
iTorse,  playing  with  all  her  soul,  flooding*  the  house  with  sound 
-now  as  soft  and  delicate  as  first  love,  now  as  full  and  grand 
.s  storm  waves  on  an  angry  coast.  And  tKe  sister,  going  with 
ompressed  lip,  to  her  work-table,  would  recognize  sorely  that 
lever  had  the  girl  looked  so  handsome,  and  never  had  the 
[ghtnings  of  a  wayward  genius  played  so  finely  about  her. 
^  As  to  Langham,  it  may  well  be  believed  that  after  the  scene 
p  the  garden  he  had  rated,  satirized,  examined  himself  in  the 
fiost  approved  introspective  style.  One  half  of  him  declared 
hat  scene  to  have  been  the  heights  of  melodramatic  absurdity ; 
lie  other  thought  of  it  with  a  thrill  of  tender  gratitude  toward 
lie  young  pitiful  creature  who  had  evoked  it.  After  all,  why, 
ecause  he  was  alone  in  the  world  and  must  remain  so,  should 
te  feel  bound  to  refuse  this  one  gift  of  the  gods,  the  delicate 
•assinggift  of  a  girl's— a  child's  friendship?  As  for  her,  the 
aan's  very  real,  though  wholly  morbid,  modesty  scouted  the 
lotion  of  love  on  her  side.  He  was  a  likely  person  for  a  beauty 
•n  the  threshold  of  life  and  success  to  fall  in  love  with ;  but  she 
Qeant  to  be  kind  to  him,  and  he  smiled  a  little  inward  indul- 
i;ent  smile  over  her  very  evident  compassion,  her  very  evident 
ntention  of  reforming  him,  reconciling  him  to  life.  And,  fin- 
illy,  he  was  incapable  of  any  further  resistance.  He  had  gone 
^00  far  withv  her.  Let  her  do  what  she  would  with  him,  dear 
Jhildj  with  the  sharp  tongue  ^xA  tlie  Bof t  heart,  aiid  the  touch 


£64 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


of  genius  and  brilliancy  which  made  her  future  so  interesting! 
He  called  his  age  and  his  disillusions  to  the  rescue ;  he  posed  to 
himself  as  stooping  to  her  in  some  sort  of  elder-brotherly  fash- 
ion ;  and  if  every  now  and  then  some  disturbing  memory  of  that 
strange  scene  between  them  would  come  to  make  his  present 
r61e  less  plausible,  or  some  whim  of  hers  made  it  difficult  to 
play,  why  then  at  bottom  there  was  always  the  consciousness 
that  sixty  hours,  or  thereabouts,  would  see  him  safely  settled  m 
that  morning  train  to  London.  Throughout  it  is  probable  that 
that  morning  train  occupied  the  saving  background  of  hki 
thoughts. 

The  two  days  passed  by,  and  the  squire's  dinner-party  ar  j 
rived.  About  seven  on  the  Thursday  evening  a  party  of  four 
might  have  been  seen  hurrying  across  the  park— Langham  and 
Catherine  in  front,  Elsmere  and  Rose  behind.  Catherine  hac 
arranged  it  so,  and  Langham,  who  understood  perfectly  thai 
his  friendship  with  her  young  sister  was  not  at  all  to  Mrs.  Els 
mere's  taste,  and  who  had  by  nov>^  taken  as  much  of  a  dishki 
to  her  as  his  natm^e  was  capable  of,  was  certainly  doing  noth 
ing  to  make  his  walk  with  her  otherwise  than  difficult.  Am 
every  now  and  then  some  languid  epigram  would  bring  Cath 
erine's  eyes  on  him  with  a  fiery  gleam  in  their  gray  depths 
Oh,  fourteen  more  hours  and  she  would  have  shut  the  rector: 
gate  on  this  most  unwelcome  of  intruders !  She  had  never  f el 
so  vindictively  anxious  to  see  the  last  of  any  one  in  her  life 
There  was  in  her  a  vehemence  of  antagonism  to  the  maQ'i 
manner,  his  pessimism,  his  infidehty,  his  very  ways  of  speaii 
ing  and  looking,  which  astonished  even  herself. 

Robert's  eager  soul  meanwhile,  for  once  irresponsive  to  Catl 
erine's,  was  full  of  nothing  but  the  squire.  At  last  the  momcDi 
was  come,  and  that  dumb  spiritual  friendship  he  had  forme 
through  these  long  months  with  the  philosopher  and  the  savaEi 
was  to  be  tested  by  sight  and  speech  of  the  man.  He  bad 
himself  a  hundred  times  pi^;ch  his  expectations  low.  But  cur 
osity  and  hope  were  keen,  in  spite  of  everything. 

Ah,  those  parish  worries!  Robert  caught  the  smoke  of  MiJ. 
End  in  the  distance,  curling  above  the  tmhght  woods,  and  laii 
about  hhn  vigorously  with  his  stick  on  the  squire's  shrubs,  i 
he  thought  of  those  poisonous  hovels,  those  ruined  lives !  Bu 
after  all,  it  might  be  mere  ignorance,  and  that  wretch  Hen. 
lowe  might  have  been  merely  trading  on  his  master's  morbl' 
love  of  solitude. 


BOBERT  ELSMEBE. 


26a 


And  then— -all  men  have  their  natural  conceits.  Eobert  Els- 
imere  would  not  have  heen  the  very  human  creature  he  was  if, 
I  j  half  consciously,  h^  had  not  counted  a  good  deal  on  his  own 
Ipowers  of  influence.  Life  had  been  to  him  so  far  one  long 
social  success  of  the  best  kind.  Very  likely,  as  he  walked  on 
i  to  the  great  house  over  whose  threshold  lay  the  answer  to  the 
[  enigma  of  months,  his  mind  gradually  filled  with  some  na'ive 
I  young  dream  of  winning  the  squire,  playing  him  with  all  sorts 
!lof  honest  arts,  beguiling  him  back  to  life— to  his  kind. 

Those  friendly  messages  of  his  through  Mrs.  Darcy  had  been 

I  very  pleasant. 

'    ^'I  wonder  whether  my  Oxford  friends  have  been  doing  me 

II  a  good  turn  with  the  squire,"  he  said  to  Eose,  laughing.  He 
I  knows  the  provost,  of  course.  If  they  talked  me  ever  it  is  to 
'  be  hoped  my  scholarship  didn't  come  up.  Precious  little  the 
provost  used  to  think  of  my  abilities  for  Greek  prose !" 

Eose  yawned  a  little  behind  her  gloved  hand.  Eobert  had 
i  already  talked  a  good  deal  about  the  squire,  and  he  was  certainly 
I  the  only  person  in  the  group  who  was  thinking  of  him.  Even 
I  Catherine,  absorbed  in  other  anxieties,  had  forgotten  to  feel 
any  thrill  at  their  approaching  introduction  to  the  man  who 
I  imust  of  necessity  mean  so  much  to  herself  and  Eobert. 
i 

''Mr.  and  Mrs.  Eobert  Elsmere,"  said  the  butler,  throwing 
I  open  the  carved  and  gilded  doors. 

I  Catherine— following  her  husband,  her  fine  grave  head  and 
i  beautiful  neck  held  a  little  more  erect  than  usual— was  at  first 
conscious  of  nothing  but  the  dazzle  of  western  light  which  flood-  ^ 

I  ed  the  room,  striking  the  stands  of  Japanese  lilies,  and  the  white 
[figure  of  a  clown  in  the  famous  Watteau  opposite  the  window, 

,  I  Then  she  found  herself  greeted  by  Mrs.  Darcy,  whose  odd 
habit  of  holding  her  lace  handkerchief  in  her  right  hand  on 
festive  occasions  only  left  her  two  fingers  for  her  guests.  The 

.  I  mistress  of  the  Hah— as  diminutive  and  elf-like  as  ever  in  spite 
I  of  the  added  dignity  of  her  sweeping  silk  and  the  draperies  of 

I '  black  lace  with  which  her  tiny  head  was  adorned— kept  tight 

i  j  hold  of  Catherine,  and  called  a  gentleman  standing  in  a  group 

1 1)  just  behind  her. 

''Eoger,  here  are  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Eobert  Elsmere.   Mr.  Els- 

j  mere,  the  squire  remembers  you  in  petticoats,  and  I'm  not  sure 

jji  that  I  don't  too." 

Eobert,  smiling,  looked  beyond  her  to  the  advancing  figure* 


266 


BOBEET  ELSMERE. 


of  he  squire,  but  if  Mr.  Wendover  heard  his  sister's  remark  h' 
took  no  notice  of  it.  He  held  out  his  hand  stiffly  to  Rober: 
bowed  to  Catherine  and  Eose  before  ext?nding  to  them  tb 
same  formal  greeting,  and  just  recognized  Langham  as  havini 
met  him  at  Oxford. 

Having  done  so  he  turned  back  to  the  knot  of  people  wit 
whom  he  had  been  engaged  on  their  entrance.  His  manne 
had  been  reserve  itself.  The  hauteur  of  the  grandee  on  his  ow 
ground  was  clearly  marked  in  it,  and  Eobert  could  not  hel 
fancying  that  toward  himself  there  had  even  been  somethin, 
more.  And  not  one  of  those  phrases  which,  under  the  circuo: 
stances,  would  have  been  so  easy  and  so  gracious,  as  to  Rol 
ert's  childish  connection  with  the  place,  or  as  to  the  squire' 
remembrance  of  his  father,  even  though  Mrs.  Darcy  had  givei 
him  a  special  opening  of  the  kind.  I 

The  young  rector  instinctively  drew  himself  together,  lik*. 
one  who  has  received  a  blow,  as  he  moved  across  to  the  other 
side  of  the  fire-place  to  shake  hands  with  the  worthy  family  doc 
tor,  old  Meyrick,  who  was  already  well  known  to  bun.  Cath 
erine,  in  some  discomfort,  for  she  too  had  felt  their  reception  a 
the  squire's  hands  to  be^a  chilling  one,  sat  down  to  talk  to  Mrs 
Darcy,  disagreeably  conscious  the  while  that  Rose  and  Lang, 
ham  left  to  themselves  were  practically  tete-a-tete,  and  that 
moreover,  a  large  stand  of  flowers  formed  a  partial  screen  be 
tween  her  and  them.  She  could  see,  however,  the  gleam  o: 
Rose's  upstretched  neck,  as  Langham,  who  was  leaning  on  thd 
piano  beside  her,  bent  down  to  talk  to  her;  and  when  she 
looked  next  she  caught  a  smiling  motion  of  Langham's  heac 
and  eyes  toward  the  Romney  portrait  of  Mr.  Wendover'^ 
grandmother,  and  was  certain,  when  he  stooped  afterward  tc 
say  something  to  his  companion,  that  he  was  commenting  ons 
certain  surface  likeness  there  was  between'  her  and  the  youn^ 
auburn-haired  beauty  of  the  picture.  Hateful!  And  they 
would  be  sent  down  to  dinner  together  to  a  certainty. 

The  other  guests  were  Lady  Charlotte  Wynnstay,  a  cousin  oJ 
the  squire— a  tall,  imperious,  loud-voiced  woman,  famous  m 
London  society  for  her  relationships,  her  audacity,  and  the  saloB 
which  in  one  way  or  another  she  managed  to  collect  round  her: 
her  dark,  thin,  irritable-looking  husband;  two  neighboring 
clerics — the  first,  by  name  Longstaff  e,  a  somewhat  inferior  speci- 
men of  the  cloth,  whom  Robert  cordially  disliked ;  and  the  other, 
Mr.  Bickerton*a  gentle  Evangelical,  one  of  those  men  who  help 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


267 


I  io  ease  the  harshness  of  a  cross-gramed  world,  and  to  reconcile 

II  ithe  cleverer  or  more  impatient  folk  in  it  to  the  worries  of  living, 
i  i  Lady  Charlotte  was  already  known  by  name  to  the  Elsmeres 
1  las  the  aunt  of  one  of  their  chief  friends  of  the  neighborhood— 

the  wife  of  a  neighboring  squire  whose  property  joined  that  of 
Murewell  Hall,  one  Lady  Helen  Yarley,  of  whom  more  present- 
ly.  Lady  Charlotte  was  the  sister  of  the  Duke  of  Sedbergh,  one 
:  of  the  greatest  of  dukes,  and  the  sister  also  of  Lady  Helen's 
i  mother,  Lady  Wanless.  Lady  Wanless  had  died  prematurely , 
r  and  her  two  younger  children,  Helen  and  Hugh  Flaxman, 
r  creatures  both  of  them  of  unusually  fine  and  fiery  quality,  had 
i  owed  a  good  deal  to  their  aunt.  There  were  family  alliances 
P  between  the  Sedberghs  and  the  Wendovers,  and  Lady  Charlotte 
fjmade  a  point  of  keeping  up  with  the  squire.  She  adored 
:  cynics  and  people  who  said  piquant  things,  and  it  amused  her 
^  jto  make*  her  large  tyrannous  hand  feit  by  the  squire's  timid, 

crack-brained,  ridiciilous  little  sister. 
A  As  to  Dr.  Meyrick,  he  was  tall  and  gaunt  as  Don  Quixote. 
I,.,  His  gray  hair  made  a  ragged  fringe  round  his  straight-backed 
I  head;  he  wore  an  old-fashioned  neck-cloth;  his  long  body  had 
a  perpetual  stoop,  as  though  of  deference,  and  his  spectacled 
g.  ■  look  of  mild  attentiveness  had  nothing  in  common  with  that 
I !  medical  self-assurance  with  which  we  are  all  nowadays  so 
^  familiar.  Eobert  noticed  presently  that  when  he  addressed 
A  Mrs.  Darcy  he  said  ''ma'am,"  making  no  bones  at  all  about  it; 
]^  i  and  his  manner  generally  was  the  manner  of  one  to  whom  class 
ij  distinctions  were  the  profoundest  reahty,  and  no  burden  at  all 

I  i  on  a  naturally  humble  temper.  Dr.  Baker,  of  Whindale,  ac- 
)j  I  customed  to  trouncing  Mrs.  Seaton,  would  have  thought  him  a 
J,  j  poor  creature. 

I':  When  dinner  was  announced,  Robert  found  himself  assigned 
,  to  Mrs.  Darcy ;  the  squire  took  Lady  Charlotte.  Catherine  fell 
j  to  Mr.  Bickerton,  Eose  to  Mr.  Wynnstay,  and  the  rest  found 
'   their  way  in  as  best  they  could.    Catherine,  seeing  the  distribu- 

I I  tion,  was  happy  for  a  moment,  till  she  found  that  if  Rose  was 
J I  covered  on  her  right  she  was  exposed  to  the  full  fire  of  the 
J  enemy  on  her  left;  in  other  words,  that  Langham  was  placed 
,  I  between  her  and  Dr.  Meyrick. 

''Are  your  spirits  damped  at  aU  by  this  magnificence?'^ 
Langham  said  to  his  neighbor  as  they  sat  down.    The  table  was 
Ijjl  entirely  covered  with  Japanese  lilies,  save  tor^the  splendid  sil- 
'   ver  candelabra  from  which  the  ligh^ashed,  first  on  to  the  faces 


268 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


of  the  guests,  and  then  on  to  those  of  the  family  portraits,  hung 
thickly  round  the  room.  A  roof  embossed  with  gilded  Tudor 
roses  on  a  ground  of  black  oak  hung  above  them;  a  rose-water 
dish  in  which  the  Merry  Monarch  had  once  dipped  his  hands, 
and  which  bore  a  record  of  the  fact  in  the  inscription  on  its 
sides,  stood  before  them;  and  the  servants  were  distributing 
to  each  guest  silver  soup-plates  which  had  been  the  gift  of 
Sarah,  Duchess  of  Marlborough,  in  some  moment  of  generosity 
or  calculation,  to  the  Wendover  of  her  day. 

''Oh,  dear,  no!"  said  Eose,  carelessly.  ''I  don't  know  how 
it  is,  I  think  I  must  have  been  born  for  a  palace." 

Langham  looked  at  her,  at  the  daring  harmony  of  color  made 
by  the  reddish  gold  of  her  hair,  the  warm  whiteness  of  her  skin, 
and  the  brown-pink  tints  of  her  dress,  at  the  crystals  playing  the 
part  of  diam^cnds  on  her  beautiful  neck,  and  remembered  Rob- 
ert's remarks  to  him.  The  same  irony  mingled  with  the  same 
bitterness  returned  to  him,  and  the  elder  brother's  attitude  be- 
came once  more  temporarily  difficult.  "Who  is  your  neigh- 
bor?" he  inquired  of  her  presently. 

''Lady  Charlotte's  husband,"  she  answered,  mischievously, 
under  her  breath.  ' '  One  needn't  know  much  more  about  him, 
I  imagine." 

"  And  that  man  opposite?" 

"Robert's  pet  aversion,"  she  said,  calmly,  without  a  change 
of  countenance,  so  that  Mr.  T.ongstalTe  opposite,  who  was  study- 
ing her  as  he  always  studied  pretty  young  women,  stared  at  her 
through  her  remark  in  sublime  ignorance  of  its  bearing. 

' '  And  your  sister's  neighbor?" 

"I  can't  hit  him  off  in  a  sentence,  he's  toe  good !"  said  Rose, 
laughing,  "all  I  can  say  is  that  Mrs.  Bickerton  has  too  many 
3hildren,  and  the  children  have  too  many  ailments  for  her  ever 
to  dine  out." 

"That  will  do;  I  see  the  existence,"  said  langham,  with  a 
3hrug.  "But  he  has  the  look  of  an  apostle,  though  a  rather 
iiunted  one..  Probably  nobody  here,  except  Robert,  is  fit  to  tie 
[lis  shoes." 

"The  squire  could  hardly  be  called  empresse^''  said  Rose, 
after  a  second,  with  a  curl  of  her  red  lips.  Mr.  Wynnstay  was 
still  safely  engaged  with  Mrs.  Darcy,  and  there  was  a  buzz  of 
talk,  largely  sustained  by  Lady  Charlotte. 

"No,"  Langham  admitted;  "the  manners  I  thought  we»^ 
not  auite  egual  to  the  house/ - 


EGBERT  ELSMEEE. 


269 


' '  What  possible  reason  could  he-have  for  treating  Eobert  with 
those  airs?"  said  Eose,  indignantly,  ready  enough  in  girl  fashion 
to  defend  her  belongings  against  the  outer  world.  He  ought 
to  be  only  too  glad  to  have  the  opportunity  of  knowing  him 
and  making  friends  with  him." 

'^You  are  a  sister  worth  having,"  and  Langham  smUed  at 
her  as  she  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  her  white  arms  and  wrists 
lying  on  her  lap,  and  her  slightly  flushed  face  turned  toward 
him.  They  had  been  on  these  pleasant  terms  of  camaraderie 
ail  day,  and  the  intimacy  between  them  had  been  still  making 

strides.  ^ 

^'  Do  you  imagine  I  don't  appreciate  Robert  because  I  make 
bad  jokes  about  the  choir  and  the  clothing  club  ?"  she  asked 
him,  with  a  little  quick  repentance  passing  like  a  shadow 
through  her  eyes.  "I  always  feel  I  play  an  odious  part  here. 
.1  can't  like  it— I  can't— their  life.  I  should  hate  it!  And 
yet—" 

She  sighed  remorsefully,  and  Langham,  who  five  mmutes 
before  could  have  wished  her  to  be  always  smiling,  could  now 
have  almost  asked  to  fix  her  as  she  was;  the  eyes  veiled,  the 
Bolt  lips  relaxed  in  this  passing  instant  of  gravity. 

''Ah!  I  forgot"— and  she  looked  up  again  with  light  be- 
witching appeal— 'Hhere  is  still  that  question,  my  poor  little 
question  of  Sunday  night,  when  I  was  in  that  fine  moral  frame 
of  mind  and  you  were  near  giving  me,  I  believe,  the  only  good 
advice  you  ever  gave  in  your  life— how  shamefully  you  have 
treated  it !" 

One  brilliant  look,  which  Catherine  for  her  torment  caught 
from  the  other  side  of  the  table,  and  then  in  an  instant  the 
quick  face  changed  and  stiffened.  Mr.  Wynnstay  was  speak- 
ing to  her,  and  Langham  was  left  to  the  intermittent  mercies 
of  Dr.  Meyrick,  who  though  glad  to  talk,  was  also  quite  con- 
tent, apparently,  to  judge  from  the  radiant  placidity  of  his 
look,  to  examine  his  wine,  study  his  menu,  and  enjoy  his  en- 
trees in  silence,  undisturbed  by  the  uncertain  pleasures  of  con- 
versation. 

Robert,  meanwhile,  during  the  first  few  minutes,  in  which 
Mr.  Wynnstay  had  been  engaged  in  some  family  talk  with 
Mrs.  Darcy,  had  been  allowing  himself  a  little  deliberate  study 
of  Mr.  Wendover  across  what  seemed  the  safe  distance  of  a 
long  table.  The  squire  was  talking  shortly  and  abruptly,  yet 
vsith  occasional  flashes  of  shrill,  ungainly  laughter,  to  Lady 


270 


KGB  EST  ELSMERE. 


Charlotte,  who  seemed  to  have  no  sort  of  fear  of  him  and  to 
find  him  good  company,  and  every  now  and  then  Robert  saw 
him  turn  to  Catherine,  on  the  other  side  of  him,  and  with  an 
obvious  change  of  manner  address  some  formal  and  constrained 
remark  to  her. 

Mr.  Wendover  was  a  man  of  middle  height  and  loose  bony 
frame,  of  which,  as  Robert  had  noticed  in  the  drawing-room, 
all  the  lower  half  had  a  thin  and  shrunken  look.  But  the 
shoulders,  which  had  the  scholar's  stoop,  and  the  head  were 
massive  and  squarely  outlined.  The  head  was  specially  remark- 
able for  its  great  breadth  and  comparative  flatness  above  the 
eyes,  and  for  the  way  in  which  the  head  itself  dwarfed  the  face, 
which,  as  contrasted  with  the  large  angularity  of  the  skull,  had 
a  pinched  and  drawn  look.  The  hair  was  reddish-gray'  the 
eyes  small,  but  deep  set  under  fine  brows,  and  the  thin-lipped 
wrinkled  mouth  and  long  chin  had  a  look  of  hard,  sarcastic 
strength. 

Generally  the  countenance  was  that  of  an  old  man;  the  fur- 
rows were  deep,  the  skin  brown  and  shriveled.  But  the  alert- 
ness and  force  of  the  man's  whole  expression  showed  that,  if 
the  body  was  beginning  to  faH,  the  mind  was  as  fresh  and 
masterful  as  ever.  His  hair,  worn  rather  longer  than  usual, 
his  loosely  fitting  dress  and  slouching  carriage  gave  him  an 
un-English  look.  In  general  he  impressed  Robert  as  a  sort  of 
curious  combination  of  the  foreign  savant  with  the  Enghsh 
grandee,  for  while  his  manner  showed  a  considerable  conscious- 
ness of  birth  and  social  importance,  the  gulf  between  him  and 
the  ordinary  English  country  gentleman  could  hardly  have 
been  greater,  whether  in  points  of  appearance,  or,  as  Robert 
very  weU  knew,  in  points  of  social  conduct.  And  as  Robert 
watched  him,  his  thoughts  flew  back  again  to  the  hbrary,  to 
this  man's  past,  to  all  that  those  eyes  had  seen  and  those  hknds 
had  touched.  He  felt  already  a  mysterious,  almost  a  yearning 
sense  of  acqaintance  with  the  being  who  had  just  received  him 
with  such  chilling,  such  unexpected  indifference. 

The  squire's  manners,  no  doubt,  were  notorious,  but  even  so 
his  reception  of  the  new  rector  of  the  parish,  the  son  of  a  man 
mtimately  connected  for  years  with  the  place,  and  with  his 
father,  and  to  whom  he  had  himself  shown  what  was  for  him 
considerable  civflity  by  letter  and  message,  was  sufficiently 
startlmg.  Robert,  however,  had  no  time  to  speculate  on  the 
causes  of  it,  for  Mrs.  Darcy,  released  from  Mr.  Wynnstay 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


211 


threw  herself  with  glee  on  to  her  longed-for  prey,  the  young 
and  interesting-looking  rector.  First  of  all  she  cross-examined 
him  as  to  his  Hterary  employments,  and  when  by  dint  of  much 
questioning  she  had  forced  particulars  from  him,  Kobert's 
mouth  twitched  as  fee  watched  her  scuttling  away  from  the 
subject,  seized  evidently  with  internal  terrors  lest  she  should 
have  precipitated  herseK  beyond  hope  of  rescue  into  the  jaws 
of  the  sixth  century.  Then,  with  a  view  to  regaining  the  lead 
and  opening  another  and  more  promising  vein,  she  asked  him 
his  opinion  of  Lady  Selden's  last  novel,  ^%ove  in  a  Marsh," 
and  when  he  confessed  ignorance  she  paused  a  moment,  fork 
in  hand,  her  smaU  wrinkled  face  looking  almost  as  bewildered 
as  when,  three  minutes  before,  her  rashness  had  well-nigh 
brought  her  face  to  face  with  Gregory  of  Tours  as  a  topic  of 
conversation.  n  .jt 

But  she  was  not  daunted  long.  With  little  airs  and  bridhngs 
infinitely  diverting,  she  exchanged  inquiry  for  the  most  beguil- 
ing confidence.  She  could  appreciate  '^clever  men,"  she  said, 
for  she-she,  too-was  literary.  Did  Mr.  Elsmere  know-this 
in  a  hurried  whisper,  with  sidelong  glances  to  see  that  Mr. 
Wynnstay  was  safely  occupied  with  Eose,  and  the  squire  with 
Lady  Charlotte— that  she  had  once  written  a  novel  f  Eobert, 
who  had  been  posted  up  in  many  things  concerning  the  neigh- 
borhood by  Lady  Helen  Varley,  could  answer  most  truly  that 
he  had.   Whereupon  Mrs.  Darcy  beamed  all  over. 

Ah!  but  you  haven't  read  it,"  she  said,  regretfully.  ''It 
was  when  I  was  maid  of  honor,  you  know.  No  maid  of  honor 
had  ever  written  a  novel  before.  It  was  quite  an  event.  Dear 
Prince  Albert  burrowed  a  copy  of  me  one  night  to  read  in  bed— 
I  have  still,  with  the  page  turned  down  where  he  left  off." 
She  hesitated.  "It  was  only  in  the  second  chapter,"  she  said 
at  last,  with  a  fine  truthfulness,  ''but  you  know  he  was  so 
busy,  all  the  queen's  work  to  do,  of  course,  besides  his  own- 
poor  man !" 

Robert  implored  her  to  lend  him  the  work,  and  Mrs.  Darcy, 
with  blushes  which  made  her  more  weird  than  ever,  consented. 

Then  there  was  a  pause,  filled  by  an  acid  altercation  between 
Lady  Charlotte  and  her  husband,  who  had  not  found  Rose 
as  grateful  for  his  attention^  as,  in  his  opinion,  a  pmk  and 
white  nobody  at  a  country  dinner-party  ought  to  be,  and  was 
-lad  of  the  diversion  afforded  him  by  some  aggressive  remark 
}f  his  wife,   He  and  she  differed  on  three  main  points— politics ; 


272 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


the  decoration  of  their  London  house,  Mr.  W}  nnstay  being  a 
lover  of  Louise  Quinze,  and  Lady  Charlotte  a  preacher  of  Morris; 
and  the  composition  of  their  dinner-parties.  Lady  Charlotte, 
in  the  pursuit  of  amusement  and  notoriety,  was  fond  of  flooding 
the  domestic  hearth  with  all  the  people  possessed  of  any  sort  of 
a  name  for  any  sort  of  a  reason  in  London.  Mr.  Wynnstay 
loathed  such  promiscuity;  and  the  company  in  which  his  wife 
compelled  him  to  drink  his  wine  had  seriously  soured  a  small 
irritable  Conservative  with  more  family  pride  than  either 
nerves  or  digestion. 

During  the  whole  passage  of  arms,  Mrs.  Darcy  watched  Els- 
mere,  cat-and-m_ouse  fashion,  with  a  further  confidence  burning 
within  her,  and  as  soon  as  there  was  once  more  a  general  burst 
of  talk,  she  pounced  upon  him  afresh.  Would  he  hke  to  know 
that  after  thirty  years  she  had  just  finished  her  second  novel, 
unbeknown  to  her  brother— as  she  mentioned  him  the  little 
face  darkened,  took  a  strange  bitterness- and  it  was  just  about 
to  be  intrusted  to  the  post  and  a  publisher? 

Eobert  was  all  interest,  of  course,  and  inquired  the  subject. 
Mrs.  Darcy  expanded  still  more-could,  in  fact,  have  hugged 
him.  But,  just  as  she  was  launching  into  the  plot  a  thought, 
apparently  a  scruple  of  conscience,  struck  her. 

Do  you  remembcr,^^  she  began,  lookmg  at  him  a  little  dark- 
ly, askance,"  what  I  said  about  my  hobbies  the  other  day? 
Nov/,  Mr.  Elsmere,  wili|^;ou  tell  me— don't  mind  me— don't  be 
polite— have  you  ever  heard  people  tell  stories  of  me?  Have 
you  ever,  for  instance,  heard  them  call  me  a— a-tuft-hunter?" 

''Never!"  said  Robert,  heartily. 

''  They  might,"  she  said,  sighing,  ''lam  a  tuft-hunter.  I 
can't  help  it.  And  yet  we  are  a  good  family,  you  know.  I 
suppose  it  was  that  year  at  court,  and  that  horrid  Warham 
afterward.  Twentv  years  in  a  cathedral  town— and  a  very 
little  cathedral  town,  after  Windsor,  and  Buckingham  Palace, 
and  dear  Lord  Melbourne !  Every  year  I  came  up  to  town  to 
stay  with  my  father  for  a  month  in  the  season,  and  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  that  I  should  have  died— my  husband  knew  I  should. 
It  was  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil,  of  course,  but  it 
couldn't  be  helped.  But  now,"  and  she  looked  plaintively  at 
her  companion,  as  though  challenging  him  to  a  candid  reply, 
''you  ivoiild  be  more  interesting,  wouldn't  you,  to  tell  the 
truth,  if  you  had  a  handle  to  your  name?" 

"Immeasurably,"  cried  Robert,  stifling  bis  laughter  witb 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


273 


immense  difficulty,  as  he  saw  she  had  no  inclination  to  laugh. 

^*Well,  yes,  you  know.  But  it  isn't  right;"  and  again  she 
sighed.  ''And  so  I  have  been  writing  this  novel  just  for  that. 
It  is  called— what  do  you  think?— 'Mr.  Jones.'  Mr.  Jones  is 
my  hero— it's  so  good  for  me,  you  know,  to  think  about  a 
Mr.  Jones." 

She  looked  beamingly  at  him.    "It  must  be,  indeed !  Have 
you  endowed  him  with  every  virtue?" 

Oh,  yes,  and  in  the  end,  you  know—"  and  she  bent  forward 
eagerly— "  it  aU  comes  right.  His  father  didn't  die  in  Brazil 
without  children,  after  all,  and  the  title—" 

What  1"  cried  Robert,  "  so  he  ivasn't  Mr.  Jones?" 

Mrs.  Darey  looked  a  little  conscious. 

"Well,  no,"  she  said,  guiltily,  "  not  just  at  the  end.  But  it 
really  doesn't  matter— not  to  the  story." 

Robert  shook  his  head,  with  a  look  of  protest  as  admonitory 
as  he  could  make  it,  which  evoked  in  her  an  answering  ex- 
pression of  anxiety.  But  just  at  that  moment  a  loud  wave 
of  conversation  and  of  laughter  seemed  to  sweep  down  upon 
them  from  the  other  end  of  the  table,  and  their  Ubtle  private 
eddy  was  effaced.  The  squire  had  been  telhng  an  anecdote, 
and  his  clerical  neighbors  had  been  laughing  at  it. 

"Ah  !"  cried  Mr.  Longstaffe,  throwing  himself  back  in  his 
chair  with  a  chuckle,  "that  was  an  archbishop  worth  hav- 
ing !" 

"  A  curious  story,"  said  Mr.  Bickerton,  benevolently,  the 
point  of  it,  however,  to  tell  the  truth,  not  being  altogether  clear 
to  him.  It  seemed  to  Robert  that  the  squire's  keen  eye,  as  he 
sat  looking  down  the  table,  with  his  large  nervous  hands  clasped 
before  him,  w^as  specially  fixed  upon  himself. 

"  May  we  hear  the  story  ?"  he  said,  bending  forward.  Cath- 
erine, faintly  smiling  in  her  corner  beside  the  host,  was  looking 
a  little  flushed  and  moved  out  of  her  ordinary  quiet. 

"  It  is  a  story  of  Archbishop  Manners  Sutton,"  said  Mr. 
Wendover,  in  his  dry  nasal  voice.  "You  probably  know  it, 
Mr.  Elsmere.  After  Bishop  Heber's  consecration  to  the  See  of 
Calcutta,  it  fell  to  the  archbishop  to  make  a  valedictory  speech, 
in  the  course  of  the  luncheon  at  Lambeth  which  followed  the 
ceremony.  '  I  have  very  little  advice  to  give  .you  as  to  your 
future  career,'  he  said  to  the  young  bishop,  'but  all  that  expe- 
rience has  given  me  I  hand  on  to  you.   Place  before  your  eyes 


274 


BOBERT  ELSMERE. 


two  precepts,  and  two  only.  One  is,  Preach  the  Gospel ;  and 
the  other  is— Put  doivn  enthusiasm  P  " 

There  was  a  sudden  gleam  of  steely  animation  in  the  squire's 
look  as  he  told  his  story,  his  eye  all  the  while  fixed  on  Robert. 
Robert  divined  in  a  moment  that  the  story  had  been  retold  for 
his  special  benefit,  and  that  in  some  unexplained  way  the  rela- 
tions between  him  and  the  squire  were  already  biassed.  He 
smiled  a  little  with  faint  politeness,  and  falling  back  into  his 
place  made  no  comment  on  the  squire's  anecdote.  Lady  Char- 
lotte's eyeglass,  having  adjusted  itself  for  a  moment  to  the  dis 
tant  figure  of  the  rector,  -with  regard  to  whom  she  had  been 
asking  Dr.  Meyrick  for  particulars,  quite  unmindful  of  Cath- 
erine's  neighborhood,  turned  back  again  tov/ard  the  squire. 

*'An  unblushing  old  worldling,  I  should  call  your  arch- 
bishop," she  said,  briskly.  And  a  very  good  thing  for  him 
that  he  lived  when  he  did.  Our  modern  good  people  would 
have  dusted  his  apron  for  him." 

Lady  Charlotte  prided  herself  on  these  vigorous  forms  of 
speech,  and  the  squire's  neighborhood  generally  called  out  an 
unusual  crop  of  them.  The  squire  was  stiU  sitting  with  his 
hands  on  the  table,  his  great  brows  bent,  surveying  his  guests. 

"Oh,  of  course  all  the  sensible  men  are  dead  !"  he  said,  in- 
differently. But  that  is  a  pet  saying  of  mine— the  Church  of 
England  in  a  nutshell." 

Robert  flushed,  and  after  a  moment's  hesitation  bent  for- 
ward. 

"What  do  you  suppose,"  he  asked,  quietly,  "your  arch- 
bishop meant,  Mr.  Wendover,  by  enthusiasm  ?  Nonconformity, 
I  imagine. " 

"Oh,  very  possibly  !"  and  again  Robert  found  the  hawk- 
like glance  concentrated  on  himself.  "  But  I  like  to  give  his 
remark  a  much  wider  extension.  One  may  make  it  a  maxim 
of  general  experience,  and  take  it  as  fitting  all  the  fools  with  a 
mission  who  have  teased  our  generation— all  your  Eanglseys, 
and  Maurices,  and  Ruskins— every  one  bent  upon  making 
any  sort  of  aimless  commotion,  which  may  serve  him  both  as 
an  investment  for  the  next  world,  and  an  advertisement  for 
this." 

"  Upon  my  word,  squire,"  said  Lady  Charlotte,  "  I  hope  you 
don't  expect  Mr.  Elsmere  to  agree  with  you  ?" 
Mr.  Wendover  made  her  a  littli*  ^ow. 


EGBERT  ELSMERE. 


275 


I  have  very  fittle  sangumeness  of  any  sort  in  my  composi- 
tion/' he  said,  dryly.  , 

*  a  should  like  to  know,"  said  Robert,  taking  no  notice  ot 
this  by-play— I  should  like  to  know,  Mr.  Wendover,  leaving 
the  archbishop  out  of  count,  whi^fc  you  imderstand  by  this  word 
enthusiasm  in  this  maxim  of  youvs  ?" 

An  excellent  manner, "  thought  Lady  Charlotte,  who,  for  all 
her  noisiness,  was  an  extremely  shiawd  woman,  "  an  excellent 
manner  and  an  unprovoked  attack.^' 

^Catherine's  trained  eye,  however,  had  detected  signs  m 
Eobert's  look  and  bearing  which  were  lost  on  Lady  Charlotte, 
and  which  made  her  look  nervously  on.    As  to  the  rest  of  the 
table,  they  had  all  fallen  to  watching  the    break"  between  the 
new  rector  and  their  host  with  a  good  deal  of  curiosity. 
The  squire  paused  a  moment  before  replying : 
It  is  not  easy  to  put  it  tersely,"  he  said  at  last ;    but  I  may 
define  it,  perhaps,  as  the  mania  for  mending  the  roof  of  your 
right-hand  neighbor  with  straw  torn  off  the  roof  of  your  left- 
hand  neighbor ;  the  custom,  in  short,  of  robbing  Peter  to  pro- 
pitiate Paul."  .J• 
*'Preciseiy,"saidMr.  Wynnstay,  warmly;  '^all  the  ridicu- 
lous Radical  nostrums  of  the  last  fifty  years— you  have  hit 
them  off  exactly.   Sometimes  you  rob  more  and  propitiate 
less;  sometimes  you  rob  less  and  propitiate  more..  But  the 
nrinciple  is  always  the  same. "   And  mindful  of  all  those  intol- 
erable evenings,  when  these  same  Radical  nostrums  had  been 
forced  down  his  throat  at  his  own  table,  he  threw  a  pugnacious 
look  at  his  wife,  who  smiled  back  serenely  in  reply.   There  is 
small  redress,  indeed,  for  these  things,  when  out  of  the  common 
household  stock  the  wife  possesses  most  of  the  money,  and  a 
vast  proportion  of  the  brains. 

^'  And  the  cynic  takes  pleasure  in  observing,"  interrupted 
the  squire,  ''that  the  man  who  effects  the  change  of  balance 
does  it  in  the  loftiest  manner,  and  profits  in  the  vulgarest  way. 
Other  trades  may  fail.  The  agitator  is  always  sure  of  Us 
market." 

He  spoke  with  a  harsh,  contemptuous  insistence  which  was 
gradually  setting  every  nerve  in  Robert's  body  tingling.  He 
bent  forward  again,  his  long  thin  frame  and  boyish,  bright- 
complexioned  face  making  an  effective  contrast  to  the  squire's 
bronzed  and  wrinkled  sqfuareness. 

Oh,  if  you  and  Mr.^Wyniistay  are  prepared  to  draw  an  in- 


276 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


dictment  against  your  generation  and  all  its  works,  1  have  no 
more  to  say,"  he  said,  smiling  still,  though  his  voice  had  risen 
a  Httle  in  spite  of  himself.  I  should  be  content  to  withdraw 
with  my  Burke  into  the  majority.  I  imagined  your  attack  on 
enthusiasm  had  a  narrower  scope,  hut  if  it  is  to  be  made  syn 
onymous'  with  social  progress  I  give  up.  The  subject  is  to^^ 
big.  Only—" 

He  hesitated.  Mr.  Wynnstay  was  studying  him  with  some- 
what insolent  coolness ;  Lady  Charlotte's  eyeglass  never  wav- 
ered from  his  face,  and  he  felt  through  every  fibre  the  tender, 
timid  admonitions  of  his  wife's  eyes. 

However,"  he  went  on,  after  an  instant,  ^^I  imagine  that 
we  should  find  it  difficult  anyhow  to  discover  common  ground. 
I  regard  your  archbishop's  maxim,  Mr.  Wendover,"  and  his 
tone  quickened  and  grew  louder,  ''as  first  of  all  a  contradic- 
tion  in  terms;  and  in  the  next  place,  to  me,  almost  all  enthu- 
siasms are  respectable !" 

"You  are  one  of  those  people,  I  see,"  returned  Mr.  Wend- 
over, after  a  pause,  with  the  same  nasal  emphasis  and  the 
same  hauteur,  who  imagine  we  owe  civilization  to  the  heart; 
that  mankind  has  felt  its  way— literally.  The  school  of  the 
majority,  of  course— I  admit  it  amply.  I,  on  the  other  hand, 
am  with  the  benighted  minority  who  beheve  that  the  world,  so 
far  as  it  has  lived  to  any  purpose,  has  lived  by  the  Iiead,'''  and 
he  flung  the  noun  at  Eobert  scornfully.  "But  I  am  quite 
aware  that  in  a  world  of  claptrap  the  philosopher  gets  all  the 
kicks,  and  the  philanthropists,  to  give  them  their  own  label,  alJ 
the  half -pence. 

The  impassive  tone  had  gradually  warmed  to  a  heat  which 
was  unmistakable.  Lady  Charlotte  looked  on  with  increasing 
rehsh.  To  her  all  society  was  a  comedy  played  for  her  enter- 
tainment, and  she  detected  something  more  dramatic  than 
usual  in  the  juxtaposition  of  these  two  men.  That  young  rec- 
tor might  be  v/orth  looking  after.  The  dinners  in  Martin 
Street  were  alarmingly  in  want  of  fresh  blood.  As  for  poor 
Mr.  Bickerton,  he  had  begun  to  talk  hastily  to  Catherine,  with 
a  sense  of  something  tumbling  about  bis  ears;  while  Mr.  Long- 
stafile,  eyeglass  in  hand,  surveyed  the  table  with  a  distinct 
sense  of  pleasurable  entertainment.  He  had  not  seen  much  of 
Elsmere  yet,  but  it  was  as  clear  as  daylight  that  the  man  was 
a  firebrand,  and  should  be  kept  in  order. 

Meanwhile  there  was  a  pause  between  the  two  main  disput- 


BOBEfiT  ELSMEEB.  ^77 


ants-  the  storm  clouds  were  deepening  outside,  aad  rain  had 
begun  to  patter  on  the  windows.  Mrs.  Darcy  was  just  calimg 
Sntion  to  the  weather  when  the  squire  unexpectedly 
returned  to  the  charge.  .      .    t  ,.a^ 

-  Se  one  necessary  thing  in  life,"  he  said,  turning  to  Lady 
rharlotte  a  slight  irritating  smile  playing  round  his  strong 
^oS  ' ' 'iB-nof  to  be  duped.  Put  too  much  faith  in  these  fine 
Sgs  the  altruists  talk  of,  and  you  arrive  one  day  at  the  con- 
S  of  Louis  XIV.  after  the  battle  of  Eamilhes :  D^eu  a  dom 
S  S  ce  i^ai  fait  pour  lui  V  Read  yo-  Kenan ;  re- 
mind yourself  at  every  turn  that  it  is  quite  possible  after  a 
r^egSst  rmy  turn  out  to  be  in  the  right  of  it,  and  you  wdl 
find  at  any  rat,  that  the  world  gets  on  excellently  well  with- 
nnt  vour  blundering  efforts  to  set  it  straight.  And  so  we  get 
baK  the  archbishop's  maxim  -adapted,  no  doubt  to  Eng- 
S  requirements,"  and  he  shrugged  his  great  shoulders  ex- 
p^esSrX:  "  P<^^  Mr.  Elsmere,  of  course,  and  the  rest  of  our 

''ll'te^toked  down  the  table,  and  the  strident  voice 
sounded  harsher  than  ever  as  it  rose  above  the  sudden  noise  of 
the  storm  outside.  Robert's  bright  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
squire,  and  before  Mr.  Wendover  stopped,  Catherme  could  see 
the  words  of  reply  trembhng  on  his  lips.  ^     .  ^ 

- 1  am  well  content,"  he  said,  with  a  curious  dry  mtens^y 
of  tone  "  I  give  you  your  Eenan.  Only  leave  us  poor  dupes 
our Xsions.'  wJwiU  not  quarrel  with  the  division.  Wi.h 
you  all  the  cynics  of  history;  with  us  all  the  'scorners  of  the 
ground 'from  the  world's  beginning  until  now!" 

The  squire  made  a  quick  impatient  movement.  Mr.  Wynn- 
stay  looked  significantly  at  his  wife,  who  dropped  her  eyeglass 
with  a  little  irrepressible  smile. 

As  for  Eobert,  leaning  forward  with  hastened  breath,  it 
seemed  to  him  that  his  eyes  and  the  squire's  crossed  like 
swords  In  Robert's  mind  there  had  arisen  a  sudden  passion 
of  antagonism.  Before  his  eyes  there  was  a  vision  of  a  child 
in  a  stifling  room,  struggling  with  mortal  disease,  imposed 
upon  her,  as  he  hotly  reminded  himself,  by  this  man's  culpable 
neglect.  The  dinner  party,  the  splendor  of  the  room,  the  con- 
versation, excited  a  kind  of  disgust  in  him.  If  it  were  not  for 
Catherine's  pale  face  opposite  he  could  hardly  have  maintained 
his  self  control, 


278 


EGBERT  ELSMERE. 


Mrs.  Darcx,  a  little  bewildered,  and  feeling  that  things  were 
not  going  particularly  well,  thought  it  best  to  interfere. 

Roger,"  she  said,  plaintively,  ^'you  must  not  be  so  philo- 
sophical. It's  too  hot !  He  used  to  talk  like  that,"  she  went 
on,  bending  over  to  Mr.  Wynnstay,  ^'  to  the  French  priests  who 
came  to  see  us  last  winter  in  Paris.  They  never  minded  a  bit 
—they  used  to  laugh.  '  Monsieur  voire  frere,  madame,  &est  un 
homme  qui  a  trop  lu,'  they  would  say  to  me  when  I  gave  them 
their  coffee.  Oh,  they  were  such  dears,  those  old  priests! 
Roger  said  they  had  great  hopes  of  me." 

The  chatter  was  welcome,  the  conversation  broke  up.  The 
squire  turned  to  Lady  Charlotte,  and  Rose  to  Langham. 

Why  didn't  you  support  Robert  ?"  she  said  to  him,  impul- 
sively, with  a  dissatisfied  face.  ^'He  was  alone,  against  the 
table  !" 

**What  good  should  I  have  done  him?"  he 'asked,  with  a 
shrug.  And  pray,  my  lady  confessor,  what  enthusiasms  do 
you  suspect  me  of  ?" 

He  looked  at  her  intently.  It  seemed  to  her  they  were  by  the 
gate  again— the  touch  of  his  lips  on  her  hand.  She  turned  from 
him  hastily  to  stoop  for  her  fan  which  had  slipped  away.  It 
^as  only  Catherine  who,  for  her  annoyance,  saw  the  scarlet 
flush  leap  into  the  fair  face.  An  instant  later  Mrs.  Darcy  had 
given  the  signal. 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

After  dinner  Lady  Charlotte  fixed  herself  at  first  on  Cathe- 
rine, whose  quiet  dignity  during  the  somewhat  trying  ordeal  of 
the  dinner  had  impressed  her,  but  a  few  minutes'  talk  produced 
in  her  the  conviction  that  without  a  good  deal  of  pains— and  why 
should  a  Londoner,  accustomed  to  the  cream  of  things,  take 
pains  with  a  country  clergyman's  wife  ?— she  was  not  likely  to 
get  much  out  of  her.  Her  appearance  promised  more.  Lady 
Charlotte  thought,  than  her  conversation  justified,  and  she 
looked  about  for  easier  game. 

Are  you  Mr.  Elsmere's  sister  ?"  said  a  loud  voice  over  Rose's 
head ;  and  Rose,  who  had  been  turning  over  an  illustrated  book, 
with  a  mind  wholly  detached  from  it,  looked  up  to  see  Lady 
Charlotte's  massive  form  standing  over  her. 

''No,  his  sister-in-law,"  said  Rose,  fiushing  in  spite  of  herself, 
for  Lady  Charlotte  was  distinctly  formidable. 

"Hum,"  said  her  questioner,  depositing  herself  beside  ber. 


EOBEBT  ELSMERE, 


279 


never  saw  two  sisters  more  unlike.  You  have  got  a  very- 
argumentative  brother-in-law." 

Rose  said  nothing,  partly  from  awkwardness,  partly  from 
rising  antagonism. 

*^  Did  you  agree  with  him  ?"  asked  Lady  Charlotte,  putting  up 
her  glass  and  remorselessly  studying  every  detail  of  the  pink 
dress,  its  ornaments,  and  the  slippered  feet  peeping  out  beneath 
it. 

Entirely,"  said  Rose,  fearlessly,  looking  her  full  in  the  face. 

And  what  can  you  know  about  it,  I  wonder  ?  However,  you 
are  on  the  right  side.  It  is  the  fashion  nowadays  to  have  en- 
thusiasms. I  suppose  you  muddle  about  among  the  poor  like 
other  people  ?" 

I  know  nothing  about  the  poor, "  said  Rose. 

^*0h,  then,  I  suppose  you  feel  yourself  effective  enough  in 
some  other  line  ?"  said  the  other,  coolly.  What  is  it— lawn 
tennis,  or  private  theatricals,  or— hem— prettiness  ?"  And  again 
^he  eyeglass  went  up. 

^'Whichever  you  like,"  said  Rose,  calmly,  the  scarlet  on  her 
cheek  deepening,  while  she  resolutely  reopened  her  book.  The 
manner  of  the  other  had  quite  effaced  in  her  all  that  sense  of 
obligation,  as  from  the  young  to  the  old,  which  she  had  been 
very  carefully  brought  up  in.  Never  had  she  beheld  such  an 
extraordinary  woman. 

Don't  read,"  said  Lady  Charlotte,  complacently.  **Look 
at  me.  It's  your  duty  to  talk  to  me,  you  know ;  and  I  won't 
make  myself  any  more  disagreeable  than  I  can  help.  I  gene- 
rally make  myself  disagreeable,  and  yet,  after  all,  there  are  a 
great  many  people  who  like  me." 

Rose  turned  a  countenance  rippling  with  suppressed  laughter 
on  her  companion.  Lady  Charlotte  had  a  large  fair  face,  and 
a  great  deal  of  nose  and  chin,  and  an  erection  of  lace  and 
feathers  on  her  head  that  seemed  in  excellent  keeping  with  the 
masterful  emphasis  of  those  features.  Her  eyes  stared  frankly 
and  unblushingly  at  the  world,  only  softened  at  intervals  by  the 
glasses  which  were  so  used  as  to  make  them  a  most  effective 
adjunct  of  her  conversation.  Socially,  she  was  absolutely  devoid 
of  weakness  or  of  shame.  She  found  society  extremely  inter- 
esting, and  she  always  struck  straight  for  the  desirable  things 
in  it,  making  short  work  of  all  those  delicate  tentative  processes 
of  acquaintanceship  by  which  men  and  women  ordinarily  sort 
^emselves.   Rose's  brilliant,  vivacious  beauty  had  caught  her 


280 


BOBERT  EL8MERE. 


eye  at  dinner ;  she  adored  beauty  as  she  adored  anything  effect- 
ive, and  she  always  took  a  queer  pleasure  in  bullying  her  way 
into  a  girl's  liking.  It  is  a  great  thing  to  be  persuaded  that  at 
bottom  you  have  a  good  heart.  Lady  Charlotte  was  so  per- 
suaded, and  allowed  herself  many  things  in  consequence. 

What  shall  we  talk  about?"  said  Rose,  demurely.  What 
a  magnificent  old  house  .this  is  !" 

Stuff  and  nonsense !  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  the  house. 
I  am  sick  to  death  of  it.  And  if  your  people  live  in  the  parish, 
you  are  too.  I  return  to  my  question.  Come,  tell  me,  what 
is  your  particular  Hne  in  life?  I  am  sure  you  have  one,  by 
your  face.    You  had  better  tell  me;  it  will  do  you  no  harm." 

Lady  Charlotte  settled  herself  comfortably  on  the  sofa,  and 
Rose,  seeing  that  there  was  no  chance  of  escaping  her  tor- 
inentor,  felt  her  spirits  rise  to  an  encounter. 

"Really— Lady  Charlotte"— and  she  looked  down,  and 
then  up,  with^  feigned  bashfulness— I— I— play  a  little." 

"Humph!"  said  her  questioner  again,  rather  disconcerted 
by  the  obvious  missishness  of  the  answer.  "You  do,  do  you? 
More's  the  pity.  No  woman  who  respects  herself  ought  to 
play  the  piano  nowadays.  A  professional  told  me  the  other 
day  that  until  nineteen  twentieths  of  the  profession  were 
strung  up,  there  would  be  no  chance  for  the  rest;  and  as  for 
amateurs,  there  is  simply  no  room  for  them  whatever.  I  can't 
conceive  anything  more  passe  than,  amateur  pianoforte  play- 
ing !" 

"  I  don't  play  the  piano,"  said  Rose,  meekly. 

"What — the  fashionable  instrument,  the  banjo?"  laughed 
Lady  Charlotte.    "  That  would  be  really  striking." 

Rose  was  silent  again,  the  corners  of  her  mouth  twitching. 

"Mrs.  Darcy,"  said  her  neighbor,  raising  her  voice,  "this 
young  lady  tells  me  she  plays  something;  what  is  it?" 

Mrs.  Darcy  looked  in  a  rather  helpless  way  at  Catherine. 
She  was  dreadfully  afraid  of  Lady  Charlotte. 

Catherine,  with  a  curious  reluctance,  gave  the  required  in- 
formation ;  and  then  Lady  Charlotte  insisted  that  the  violin 
should  be  sent  for,  as  it  had  not  been  brought. 

"  Who  accompanies  you  ?"  she  inquired  of  Rose. 

"  Mr.  Langham  plays  very  well,"  said  Rose,  indifferently. 

Lady  Charlotte  raised  her  eyebrows.  "That  dark,  Byronic- 
looking  creature  who  came  witii^  j-ou?   I  should  not  have  im^ 


EGBERT  ELSMERE. 


281 


agined  him  capable  of  anything  sociable.   Letitia,  shall  I  send 
my  maid  to  the  rectory,  or  can  you  spare  a  man?" 

Mrs.  Darcy  hurriedly  gave  orders,  and  Eose,  inwardly  furi- 
ous, was  obHged  to  submit.  Then  Lady  Charlotte,  having 
gained  her  point,  and  secured  a  certain  amount  of  diversion 
for  the  evening,  lay  back  on  the  sofa,  used  her  fan,  and  yawned 
till  the  gentlemen  appeared. 

When  they  came  in,  the  precious  violin,  which  Eose  never 
trusted  to  any  other  hands  but  her  own  without  trepidation, 
had  just  arrived,  and  its  owner,  more  erect  than  usual,  be- 
cause more  nervous,  was  trying  to  prop  up  a  dilapidated  music- 
stand  which  Mrs.  Darcy  hari  unearthed  for  her.  As  Langham 
came  in,  she  looked  up  and  beckoned  to  him. 

''Do  you  see?"  she  said  to  him,  impatiently,  'Hhey  have 
made  me  play.  Will  you  accompany  me  ?  I  am  very  sorry, 
but  there  is  no  one  else," 

If  there  was  one  thing  Langham  loathed  on  his  own  account, 
it  was  any  sort  of  performance  in  public.  But  the  half -plaint- 
ive look  which  accompanied  her  last  words  showed  that  she 
knew  it,  and  he  did  his  best  to  be  amiable. 

''I  am  altogether  at  your  service,"  he  said,  sitting  down 
with  resignation. 

''  It  is  all  that  tiresome  woman.  Lady  Charlotte'.Wynnstay," 
she  whispered  to  him  behind  the  music-stand.  ''  I  never  saw 
such  a  person  in  my  life." 

''Macaulay's  Lady  Holland  without  the  brains,"  suggested 
Langham,  with  languid  vindictiveness  as  he  gave  her  the  note. 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Wynnsfcay  and  the  squire  sauntered  in  to- 
gether. 

village  Norman-Neruda?"  whispered  the  guest  to  the 
host.    The  squire  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

''Hush!"  said  Lady  Charlotte,  looking  severely  at  her  hus- 
band. Mr.  Wynnstay's  smile  instantly  disappeared ;  he  leaned 
against  the  doorway  and  stared  sulkily  at  the  ceiHng.  Then 
the  musicians  began  on  some  Hungarian  melodies  put  together 
by  a  younger  rival  of  Brahms.  They  had  not  played  twenty 
bars  before  the  attention  of  every  one  in  the  room  was  more  or 
less  seized— unless  we  except  Mr.  Bickerton,  whose  children, 
good  soul,  were  all  down  with  some  infantile  ailment  or  other, 
and  who  was  employed  in  furtively  watching  the  clock  all  the 
time  to  see  when  it  would  be  decent  to  order  round  the  pony- 


282  ROBERT  ELSMERE. 

carriage  which  would  take  him  back  to  his  pale,  overweighted 
spouse. 

First  came  wild  snatches  of  march  music,  primitive,  savage, 
non-European;  then  a  waltz  of  the  lightest,  maddest  rhythm, 
broken  here  and  there  by  strange  barbaric  clashes ;  then  a  song, 
plaintive  and  clinging,  rich  in  the  subtlest  shades  and  melan- 
cholies of  modern  feeling. 

'^Ah,  but  excellent!''''  said  Lady  Charlotte  once,  under  her 
breath,  at  a  pause;     and  what  entrain — what  beauty!" 

For  Eose's  figure  was  standing  thrown  out  against  the  dusky 
blue  of  the  tapestried  walls,  and  from  that  delicate  relief  every 
curve,  every  grace,  each  tint — hair  and  cheek  and  gleaming 
arm  gained  an  enchanting  picture-like  distinctness.  There 
was  jasmine  at  her  waist  and  among  the  gold  of  her  hair;  the 
crystals  on  her  neck,  and  on  the  little  shoe  thrown  forward  be- 
yond her  dress,  caught  the  lamp-light. 

"How  can  that  man  play  with  her  and  not  fall  in  love  with 
her  ?"  thought  Lady  Charlotte  to  herself  with  a  sigh,  perhaps, 
for  her  own  youth.  "He  looks  cool  enough,  however;  the 
typical  don  with  his  nose  in  the  air !" 

Then  the  slow,  passionate  sweetness  of  the  music  swept  her 
away  with  it,  she  being  in  her  way  a  connoisseur,  and  she 
ceased  to  speculate.  When  the  sounds  ceased  there  was  silence 
for  a  moment.  Mrs.  Darey,  who  had  a  piano  in  her  sitting- 
room  whereon  she  strummed  every  morning  with  her  tiny 
rheumatic  fingers,  and  who  had,  as  we  know,  strange  little 
veins  of  sentiment  running  all  about  her,  stared  at  Rose  with 
open  mouth.  So  did  Catherine.  Perhaps  it  was  then  for  the 
first  time  that,  touched  by  this  publicity,  this  contagion  of 
other  people's  feeling,  Catherine  realized  fully  against  what  a 
depth  of  stream  she  had  been  building  her  useless  barriers. 
More !  more !"  cried  Lady  Charlotte. 

The  whole  room  seconded  the  demand  save  the  squire  and 
Mr.  Bickerton.  They  withdrew  together  into  a  distant  oriel. 
Robert,  who  was  delighted  with  his  little  sister-in  law's  success, 
went  smiling  to  talk  of  it  to  Mrs.  Darcy,  while  Catherine,  with 
a  gentle  coldness,  answered  Mr.  Longstaife's  questions  on  the 
same  theme. 

Shall  we?"  said  Rose,  panting  a  little,  but  radiant,  looking 
down  on  her  companion. 

Command  me !"  he  said,  his  grave  lips  slightly  smiling,  his 


IP 


ROBEET  ELSMEBE.  283 

eyes  taking  in  the  same  vision  that  had  charmed  Lady  Char- 
iotte's.    What  a  "  child  of  grace  and  genius !" 

"  But  do  you  like  it?"  she  persisted. 

'  *  Like  it~ltke  accompanying  your  playing  ?" 
r  '^Oh,  no!"  impatiently;    showing  off,  I  mean.   I  am  quite 
ready  to  stop." 

Go  on;  go  on !"  he  said,  laying  his  finger  on  the  A.  You 
have  driven  all  my  mauvaise  honte  away.  I  have  not  heard 
you  play  so  splendidly  yet." 

She  flushed  all  over.  ^^Then  we  will  go  on,"  she  said^ 
briefly. 

So  they  plunged  again  into  an  Andante  and  Scherzo  of  Bee^ 
thoven.  How  the  girl  threw  herself  into  it,  bringing  out  the 
Trailing  love-song  of  the  Andante,  the  dainty  tripping  mirth  of 
the  Scherzo,  in  a  way  which  set  every  nerve  in  Langham  vibrat- 
ing! Yet  the  art  of  ifc  was  wholly  unconscious.  The  music 
was  the  mere  natural  voice  of  her  inmost  self.  A  comparison 
full  of  excitement  was  going  on  in  that  self  between  her  first 
impressions  of  the  man  beside  her,  and  her  consciousness  of 
him,  as  he  seemed  to  night,  human,  sympathetic,  kind.  A 
blissful  sense  of  a  mission  filled  the  young  silly  soul.  Like 
David,  she  was  pitting  herself  and  her  gift  against  those  dark 
powers  which  may  invade  and  paralyze  a  life. 

After  the  shouts  of  applause  at  the  end  had  yielded  to  a  burst 
of  talk,  in  the  midst  of  which  Lady  Charlotte,  with  exquisite 
infelicity,  might  have  been  heard  laying  down  the  law  to  Cath- 
erine as  to  how  her  sister's  remarkable  musical  powers  might 
be  best  perfected,  Langham  turned  to  his  companion  : 

"Do  you  know  that  for  years  I  have  enjoyed  nothing  so 
much  as  the  music  of  the  last  two  days?" 

His  black  eyes  shone  upon  her,  transfused  with  something 
infinitely  softly  and  friendly.  She  smiled.  How  little  I  im- 
agined that  first  evening  that  you  cared  for  music !" 

''Or  about  anything  else  worth  caring  for?"  he  asked  her, 
laughing,  but  with  always  that  little  melancholy  note  in  the 
iaugh. 

''  Oh,  if  you  like,"  she  said,  with  a  shrug  of  her  white  shoul- 
ders. ''  I  believe  you  talked  to  Catherine  the  whole  of  the  first 
evening,  when  you  weren't  reading  '  Hamlet '  in  the  corner, 
about  the  arrsingements  for  women's  education  at  Oxford." 

Could  I  have  found  a  more  respectable  subject?"  be  in- 
quired of  her. 


284 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


''The  adjective  is  excellent,"  she  said,  with  a  little  lace,  as 
she  put  her  violin  into  its  case.  ''  If  I  remember  right,  Cath- 
erine and  I  felt  it  personal.  None  of  us  were  ever  educated, 
except  in  arithmetic,  sewing,  English  history,  the  Catechism, 
and  'Paradise  Lost.'  I  taught  myself  French  at  seventeen, 
because  one  Moliere  wrote  plays  in  it,  and  German  because  of 
Wagner.  But  they  are  my  French  and  my  Grerman.  I  wouldn't 
advise  anybody  else  to  steal  them !" 

Langham  was  silent,  watching  the  movements  of  the  girl's 
agile  fingers. 

''  I  wonder,"  he  said  at  last,  slowly,  ''when  I  shall  play  that 
Beethoven  again?" 

/'  To-morrow  morning  if  you  have  a  conscience,"  she  said, 
dryly;  "we  murdered  one  or  two  passages  in  fine  style." 

He  looked  at  her,  startled.  "But  I  go  by  the  morning 
train!"  There  was  an  instant's  silence.  Then  the  violin-case 
shut  with  a  snap. 

"I  thought  it  was  to  be  Saturday,"  she  said,  abruptly. 

"No,"  he  answered,  with  a  sigh,  "it  was  always  Friday. 
There  is  a  meeting  in  London  I  must  get  to  to-morrow  after- 
noon." o 

"Then  we  sha'n't  finish  these  Hungarian  duets,"  she  said, 
slowly,  turning  away  from  him  to  collect  some  music  on  the 
piano. 

Suddenly  a  sense  of  the  difference  between  the  week  behind 
him,  with  all  its  ups  and  downs,  its  quarrels,  its  ennuis,  its 
moments  of  dehghtful  intimity,  of  artistic  freedom  and  pleas- 
ure, and  those  threadbare,  monotonous  weeks  into  which  he 
was  to  slip  back  on  the  morrow,  awoke  in  him  a  mad,  inconse- 
quent sting  of  disgust,  of  self-pity. 

"No,  we  shall  finish  nothing,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  which  only 
she  could  bear,  his  hands  lying  on  the  keys;  "there  are  some 
whose  destiny  it  is  never  to  finish^ — never  to  have  enough — ^to 
leave  the  feast  on  the  table,  and  all  the  edges  of  life  ragged!" 

Her  lips  trembled.  They  were  far  away,  in  the  vast  room, 
from  the  group  Lady  Charlotte  was  lecturing.  Her  nerves 
were  all  unsteady  with  music  and  feeling,  and  the  face  looking 
down  on  him  had  grown  pale. 

"We  make  our  own  destiny,"  she  said,  impatiently.  "  We 
choose.  It  is  aU  our  own  doing.  Perhaps  destiny  begins  things 
— friendship,  for  instance ;  but  afterward  it  is  absurd  to  talk  of 
anything  but  ourselves.  We  keep  our  friends,  our  chances,  our 


:B0BERT  EtSMEBE. 


285 


!  -^our  joys,"  she  went  on,  hurriedly,  trying  desperately  to  gen- 
'   eralize,  ' '  or  we  throw  them  away  willfully,  because  we  choose. " 

Their  eyes  were  riveted  on  each  other. 
I      ' '  Not  willfully, "  he  said,  under  his  breath.  ' '  But— no  matter. 
^   May  I  take  you  at  your  word,  Miss  Leyburn  ?  Wretched  shirker 
that  I  am,  whom*^  even  Kobert's  charity  despairs  of:  have  I 
made  a  friend?   Can  I  keep  her?" 

Extraordinary  spell  of  the  dark,  effeminate  face— of  its  rare 
smile!   The  girl  forgot  all  pride,  all  discretion.    ''Try,"  she 
whispered,  and  as  his  hand,  stretching  along  the  key-board,  in- 
stinctively felt  for  hers,  for  one  instant— and  another,  and  m- 
•  other— she  gave  it  to  him. 

Albert,  come  here!"  exclaimed  Lady  Charlotte,  beckoning 
to  her  husband;  and  Albert,  though  with  a  bad  grace,  obeyed. 

I  >' Just  go  and  ask  that  girl  to  come  and  talk  to  me,  will  you? 
Why  on  earth  didn't  you  make  friends  with  her  at  dinner?"  , 

I      The  husband  made  some  irritable  answer,  and  the  wife 

i  laughed. 

I  "  Just  like  you !"  she  said,  with  a  good  humor  which  seemed 
to  him  solely  caused  by  the  fact  of  his  non-success  with  the 
beauty  at  table.  ' '  You  always  expect  to  kill  at  the  first  stroke. 

I    I  mean  to  take  her  in  tow.    Go  and  bring  her  here." 

Mr.  Wynnstay  sauntered  off  with  as  much  dignity  as  his 

l-^'  stature  was  capable  of.    He  found  Eose  tying  up  her  music  al 

I    one  end  of  the  piano,  while  Langham  was  preparing  to  shut 
the  key-board. 

There  was  something  appeasing  in  the  girl's  handsomeness 
I     Mr.  Wynnstay  laid  down  his  airs,  paid  her  various  compli 
ments,  and  led  her  off  to  Lady  Charlotte. 
Langham  stood  by  the  piano,  lost  in  a  kind  of  miserable) 
!     dream.    Mrs.  Darcy  fluttered  up  to  him. 

'*0h,  Mr.  Langham,  you  play  so  beautifully!  Do  play  t 
solo!" 

He  subsided  on  to  the  music  bench  obediently.    On  any  or 
!     dinary  occasion  tortures  could  not  have  induced  him  to  per« 
form  in  a  room  fuU  of  strangers.    He  had  far  too  lively  anci 
fastidious  a  sense  of  the  futility  of  the  amateur. 

But  he  played— what,  he  knew  not.   Nobody  listened  but 
Mrs.  Darcy,  who  sat  lost  in  an  arm-chair  a  little  way  off,  hei 
tii>v  toot  beating  time.   Eose  stopped  talking,  started,  tried  to 
1      listen.   But  Lady  Charlotte  had  had  enough  music,  and  so  had 


286 


ROBERT  ELSMERJBl. 


Mr.  Longstaffe,  who  was  endeavoring  to  joke  himself  into  the 
good  graces  of  the  Duke  of  Sedbergh's  sister.  The  din  of  con- 
versation rose  at  the  challenge  of  the  piano,  and  Langham  was 
soon  overcrowded. 

Musically,  it  was  perhaps  as  well,  for  the  player's  inward 
tumult  was  so  great  that  what  his  hands  did  he  hardly  knew 
or  cared.  He  felt  himself  the  greatest  criminal  unhung.  Sud- 
denly, through  all  that  willful  mist  of  epicurean  feeling  which 
had  been  in  wrapping  him,  there  had  pierced  a  sharp,  illumin- 
ing beam  from  a  girl's  eyes  aglow  with  joy,  with  hope,  with 
tenderness.  In  the  name  of  Heaven,  what  had  this  growing 
degeneracy  of  every  moral  muscle  led  him  to  now?  What! 
smile  and  talk  and  smile— and  be  a  villain  all  the  time?  What  I 
encroach  on  a  young  life,  like  some  creeping  parasitic  growth, 
taking  all,  able  to  give  nothing  in  return— not  even  one  genu- 
ine spark  of  genuine  passion?  Go  philandering  on  till  a  child 
of  nineteen  shows  you  her  warm,  impulsive  heart,  play  on  her 
imagination,  on  her  pity,  safe  all  the  while  in  the  reflection  that 
by  the  next  day  you  will  be  far  away,  and  her  task  and  yours 
will  be  ahke  to  forget !  He  shrinks  from  himself  as  one  shrinks 
from  a  man  capable  of  injuring  anything  weak  and  helpless. 
To  despise  the  world's  social  code,  and  then  to  fail  conspicu- 
ously below  its  simplest  articles ;  to  aim  at  being  pure  intelli- 
gence, pure,  open-eyed  rationality,  and  not  even  to  succeed  in 
being  a  gentleman,  as  the  poor  common-place  world  under- 
stands it!  Oh,  to  fall  at  her  feet,  and  ask  her  pardon  before 
r^arting  forever!  But  no— no  more  posing;  no  more  drama- 
tizing. How  can  he  get  away  most  quietly— make  least  sign? 
7he  thought  of  that  walk  home  in  the  darkness  fills  him  with  a 
passion  of  irritable  impatience. 

Lpok  at  that  Romney,  Mr.  Elsmere ;  just  look  at  it  I"  cried 
Dr.  Meyrick,  excitedly;  ''did  you  ever  see  anything  finer? 
There  was  one  of  those  London  dealer  fellows  down  here  last 
summer  ofiPered  the  squire  four  thousand  pounds  down  on  the 
nail  for  it." 

In  this  way  Meyrick  had  been  taking  Robert  round  the  draw- 
ing-room, doing  the  honors  of  every  stick  and  stone  in  it,  his 
eyeglass  in  his  eye,  his  thin  old  face  shining  with  pride  over 
the  Wendover  possessions.  And  so  the  two  gradually  neared 
the  oriel  where  the  squire  and  Mr.  Bickerton  were  standing. 

Robert  was  in  twenty  minds  as  to  any  further  conversation 
with  the  squire.   After  the^ ladies  had  gone,  while  every  nerve 


ROBEBT  ELSMERE. 


287 


i  in  him  was  still  tingling  with  anger,  he  had  done  his  best  to 
j  keep  up  indifferent  talk  on  local  matters  with  Mr.  Bickerton. 
i  Inwardly  he  was  asking  himself  whether  he  should  ever  sit  at 
j  the  squire's  table  and  eat  his  bread  again,    tt  seemed  to  him 
1  fehat  they  had  had  a  brush  which  would  be  difficiiit  to  forget. 
A.nd  as  he  sat  there  before  the  squire's  wine,  hot  with  righteous 
heat,  all  his  grievances  against  the  man  and  the  landlord 
crowded  upon  him.    A  fig  for  intellectual  eminence  if  it  make 
a  man  oppress  his  inferiors  and  bully  his  equals ! 
I  *  But  as  the  minutes  passed  on,  the  rector  had  cooled  down. 
i-The  sweet,  placable,  scrupulous  nature  began  to  blame  itself, 
i  ^'What,  play  your  cards  so  badly,  give  up  the  game  so  rashly, 
the  very  first  round?    Nonsense!    Patience  and  try  agciin. 
I  There  must  be  some  cause  in  the  background.    No  need  to  be 
i  white-livered,  but  every  need,  in  the  case  of  such  a  man  as  the 
I  squire,  to  take  no  hasty,  needless  offense." 
I     So  he  had  cooled  and  cooled,  and  now  here  were  Meyrick  and 
he  close  to  the  squire  and  his  companion.    The  two  men,  as 
the  rector  approached,  were  discussing  some  cases  of  common 
-inclosure  that  had  just  taken  place  in  the  neighborhood. 
Robert  listened  a  moment,  then  struck  in.    Presently,  when 
the  chat  dropped,  he  began  to  express  to  the  squire  his  pleas- 
ure in  the  use  of  the  library.    His  manner  was  excellent, 
courtesy  itself,  but  without  any  trace  of  effusion. 
I     ''I  believe,"  he  said  at  last,  smiling,  ''my  father  used  to  be 
I  allowed  the  same  privileges.   If  so,  it  quite  accounts  for  the 
way  in  which  he  clung  to  Mure  well." 

"I  had  never  the  honor  of  Mr.  Edward  Elsmere's facquaint- 
ance,"  said  the  squire,  frigidly.  ''During  the  time  of  his  occu- 
pation of  the  rectory  I  was  not  in  England." 

' '  I  know.  Do  you  still  go  much  to  Germany?  Do  you  keep 
up  your  relations  with  Berlin?" 

''1  have  not  seen  Berlin  for  fifteen  years,"  said  the  squire, 
briefly^  his  eyes  in  their  wrinkled  sockets  fixed  sharply  on  the 
man  who  ventured  to  question  him  about  himself,  uninvited. 
There  was  an  awkward  pause.  Then  the  squire  -turned  again 
to  Mr.  Bickerton. 

"  Bickerton,  have  you  noticed  how  many  trees  that  storm  of 
last  February  has  brought  down  at  the  north-east  corner  of  the 
park?" 

Robert  was  inexpressibly  galled  by  the  movement,  by  the 
words  themselves.    The  sq^e  had  not  yet  addressed  a  single 


288 


ROB^UT  ELSMERE. 


1 

•4 


remark  of  any  kind  about  Murevvell  to  him.  There  was  a  de- 
liberate intention  to  exclude  implied  in  this  appeal  to  the  man 
who  was  not  the  man  of  the  place,  on  such  a  local  point,  wliich 
struck  Robert  very  forcibly. 

He  walked  away  to  whei*e  his  wife  was  sitting. 

''What  time  is  it?"  whispered  Catherine,  looking  up  at  him. 

''  Time  to  go,"  he  returned,  smiling,  but  she  caught  the  dis- 
composure in  his  tone  and  look  at  once,  and  her  wifely  heart 
rose  against  the  squire.  She  got  up,  drawing  herself  together 
with  a  gesture  that  became  her. 

"  Then  let  us  go  at  once,"  she  said.    ''Where  is  Eose?" 

A  minute  later  there  was  a  general  leave-taking.  Oddly  ' 
enough  it  found  the  squire  in  the  midst  of  a  conversation  with 
Langham.  As  though  to  show  more  clearly  that  it  was  the 
rector  personally  who  was  in  his  black  books,  Mr.  Wendover 
had  already  devoted  some  cold  attention  to  Catherine  both  at 
and  after  dinner,  and  he  had  no  sooner  routed  Robert  than  he 
moved  in  his  slouching  away  across  from  Mr.  Bickerton  to 
Langham.  And  now,  another  man  altogether,  he  was  talking 
and  laughing— describing  apparently  a  reception  at  the  French 
Academy — the  epigrams  flying,  the  harsh  face  all  lighted  up, 
the  thin,  bony  fingers  gesticulating  freely. 

The  husband  and  wife  exchanged  glances  as  they  stood  wait- 
ing, while  Lady  Charlotte,  in  her  loudest  voice,  was  command- 
ing Rose  to  come  and  see  her  in  London  any  Thursday  after 
the  first  of  November.  Robert  was  very  sore.  Catherine  pas- 
sionately felt  it,  and  forgetting  everything  but  him,  longed  to 
be  out  with  him  in  the  park  comforting  him. 

"What  an  absurd  fuss  you  have  been  making  about  that 
girl,"  Wynnstay  exclaimed  to  his  wife,  as  the  Elsmere  party 
left  the  room,  the  squire  conducting  Catherine  with  a  chill 
politeness.  "And  now,  I  suppose,  you  will  be  having  her  up 
in  town,  and  making  some  young  fellow  who  ought  to  know 
better  fall  in  love  with  her.  I  am  told  the  father  was  a  gram- 
mar-school head  master.  Why  can't  you  leave  people  where 
they  belong?" 

"I  have  already  pointed  out  to  you,"  Lady  Charlotte  ob- 
served, calmly,  "that  the  world  has  moved  on  since  you  were 
launched  into  it.  I  can't  keep  up  class  distinctions,  to  please 
you;  otherwise,  no  doubt,  being  the  devoted  wife  I  am,  I  might 
try.  However,  my  dear,  we  both  have  our  fancies.  You  col- 
lect Sevres  china  with  or  without  a  pedigree,"  and  she  coughed 


BpBERT  ELSMERE. 


289 


drjly;  collect  promising  young  women.  On  the  whole,  I 
think  my  hobby  is  more  benejQcial  to  you  than  yours  is  profita- 
ble to  me." 

Mr.  Wynnstay  was  furious.  Only  a  week  before  he  had  been 
childishly,  shamefully  taken  in  by  a  Jew  curiosity  dealer  from 
Vienna,  to  his  wife's  huge  amusement.  If  looks  could  have 
crushed  her.  Lady  Charlotte  would  have  been  crushed.  Put 
she  was  far  too  substantial  as  she  lay  back  in  her  chair,  one 
large  foot  crossed  over  the  other,  and,  as  her  husband  very 
well  knew,  the  better  man  of  the  two.  He  walked  away,  mur- 
muring under  his  mustache  words  that  would  hardly  have 
borne  publicity,  while  Ladj^  Charlotte,  through  her  glasses, 
<made  a  minute  study  of  a  little  French  portrait  hanging  some 

two  yards  from  her. 
* 

Meanwhile  the  Elsmere  party  were  stepping  out  into  the 
warm  damp  of  the  night.  The  storm  had  died  away,  but  a  soft 
Scotch  mist  of  rain  filled  the  air.  Everything  was  dark,  save 
for  a  few  ghostly  glimmerings  through  the  trees  of  the  avenue ; 
and  there  was  a  strong,  sweet  smell  of  wet  earth  and  grass. 
Rose  had  drawn  the  hood  of  her  water-proof  over  her  head, 
and  her  face  gleamed  an  indistinct  whiteness  from  its  shelter. 
Oh,  this  leaping  pulse— this  bright  glow  of  expectation !  How 
had  she  made  this  stupid  blunder  about  his  going?  Oh,  it  was 
Catherine's  mistake,  of  course,  at  the  beginning.  But  what 
matter?  Here  they  were  in  the  dark,  side  by  side,  friends 
now,  friends  always.  Catherine  should  not  spoil  their  last 
walk  together.  She  felt  a  passionate  trust  that  he  would  not 
allow  it. 

'^Wifie!"  exclaimed  Robert,  drawing  her  a  little  apart,  do 
you  know  it  has  just  occurred  to  me  that,  as  I  was  going 
through  the  park  this  afternoon  by  the  lower  footpath,  I 
crossed  Henslowe  coming  away  from  the  house.  Of  course 
this  is  what  has  happened!  He  has  told  his  story  first.  No 
doubt  just  before  I  met  him  he  had  been  giving  the  squire  a 
full  and  particular  account— d  la  Henslowe— of  my  proceedings 
since  I  came.  Henslowe  lays  it  on  thick— paints  with  a  will. 
The  squire  receives  me  afterward  as  the  meddlesome  pragmat- 
ical priest  he  understands  me  to  be;  puts  his  foot  down  to 
begin  with ;  and,  hinc  illce  lacrymce.  It's  as  clear  as  daylight  I 
I  thought  that  man  had  an  odd  twist  of  the  lip  as  he  passed 
pie."  •  - 


290 


/fOBERT  ELSMERE. 


'^Tlienv*  disagreeable  evening  will  be  the  worst  of  it,"  said 
Catherine,  proudly.  imagine,  Eobert,  you  can  defend 

yourself  against  that  bad  man?" 

•He  has  got  the  start;  he  has  no  scruples;  and  it  remains 
t^j  be  seen  whether  the  squire  has  a  heart  to  appeal  to,"  replied 
the  young  rector,  with  sore  reflectiveness.  ''Oh,  Catherine, 
have  you  ever  thought,  wifie,  what  a  business  it  will  be  for  us 
if  I  can't  make  friends  with  that  man?  Here  we  are  at  his  gates 
—all  our  people  in  his  power;  the  comfort,  at  any  rate,  of  our 
social  life  depending  on  him.  And  what  a  strange,  unman- 
ageable,- inexplicable  being !" 

Elsmere  sighed  aloud.  Like  all  quick,  imaginative  natures 
he  was  easily  depressed,  and  the  squire's  somber  figure  had  fo^ 
the  moment  darkened  his  wdiole  horizon.  Catherine  laid  her 
cheek  against  his  arm  in  the  darkness,  consoling,  remonstrat- 
ing, every  other  thought  lost  in  her  sympathy  with  Eobert's 
worries.  Langham  and  Rose  shpped  out  of  her  head ;  Elsmere's 
step  had  quickened,  as  it  always  did  when  he  was  excited,  and 
6he  kept  up  without  thinking. 

When  Langham  found  the  others  had  shot  ahead  in  the 
darkness,  and  he  and  his  neighbor  were  tete-a-tete,  despair 
seized  him.  But  for  once  he  showed  a  sort  of  dreary  presence 
of  mind.  Suddenly,  while  the  girl  beside  him  was  floating  in 
a  golden  dream  of  feeling,  he  plunged  with  a  stiff  deUberation 
born  of  his  inner  conflict  into  a  discussion  of  the  German  sys- 
tem of  musical  training.  Rose,  startled,  made  some  vague  and 
flippant  reply.  Langham  pursued  the  matter.  He  had  some 
information  about  it,  it  appeared,  garnered  up  in  his  mind, 
which  might  perhaps  some  day  prove  useful  to  her.  A  St. 
Anselm's  under-graduate,  one  Dashwood,  an  old  pupil  of  his, 
had  been  lately  at  Berlin  for  six  months,  studying  at  the  Con- 
servatorium.  Not  long  ago,  being  anxious  to  become  a  school- 
master, he  had  written  to  Langham  for  a  testimonial.  His 
letter  had  contained  a  full  account  of  his  musical  life.  Lang- 
ham proceeded  to  recapitulate  it. 

His  careful  and  precise  report  of  hours,  fees,  masters,  and 
methods  lasted  till  they  reached  the  park  gate.  He  had  the 
smallest  powers  of  social  acting,  and  his  role  was  dismally  over- 
done. The  girl  beside  him  could  not  know  that  he  was  really 
defending  her  from  himself.  His  cold,  altered  manner  merely 
seemed  to  her  a  sudden  and  marked  withdrawal  of  his  petition 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


291 


/or  her  friendship.  No  doubt  she  had  received  that  petition 
too  effusively— and  he  wished  there  should  be  no  mistake. 

What  a  young  smarting  soul  went  through  in  that  half  mile 
of  listening  is  better  guessed  than  analyzed.  There  are  certain 
moments  of  shame,  which  only  women  know,  and  which  seem 
to  sting  and  burn  out  of  youth  all  its  natural  sweet  self -love.  A 
woman  may  outlive  them,  but  never  forget  them.  If  she  pass 
ihrough  one  at  nineteen  her  cheek  will  grow  hot  over  it  at  sev- 
enty. Her  companion's  measured  tone,  the  flow  of  deliberate 
speech  which  came  from  him,  the  nervous  aloofness  of  his  atti- 
tude—every detail  in  that  walk  seemed  to  Eose's  excited  sense 
an  insult. 

As  the  park  gate  swung  behind  them  she  felt  a  sick  longing 
for  Catherine's  shelter.  Then  ail  the  pride  in  her  rushed  to  the 
rescue  and  held  that  swooning  dismay  at  the  heart  of  her  in 
check.  And  forthwith  she  capped  Langham's  minute  account 
of  the  scale-method  of  a  famous  Berlin  pianist  by  some  witty 
stories  of  the  latest  London  prodigy,  a  child- violinist,  incredibly 
gifted,  dirty,  and  greedy,  whom  she  had  made  friends  with  in 
town.  The  young  girl's  voice  rang  out  sharp  and  hard  under, 
the  trees.  Where,  in  fortune's  name,  were  the  lights  of  tlie 
rectory?  Would  this  nightmare  never  come  to  an  end? 

At  the  rectory  gate  was  Catherine  waiting  for  them,  her 
whole  soul  one  repentant  alarm. 

*^Mr.  Langham,  Eobert  has  gone  to  the  study;  will  you  go 
and  smoke  with  him?" 

''By  all  means.    Good-night,  then,  Mrs.  Elsmere." 

Catherine  gave  him  her  hand.  Rose  was  trying  hard  to  ill 
the  lock  of  the  gate  into  the  hasp,  and  had  no  hand  free.  Be 
sides,  he  did  not  approach  her. 

"  Good-night!"  she  said  to  him  over  her  shoulder. 

''Oh,  and  Mr.  LanghamJ"  Catherine  called  after  him  as  ho 
strode  away,  "  will  you  settle  with  Robert  about  the  carriage?'' 

He  turned,  made  a  sound  of  assent,  and  went  on. 

' '  When  ?"  asked  Rose,  lightly. 

*'  For  the  nine  o'clock  train." 

"There  should  be  a  law  against  interfering  with  people's 
breakfast  hour,"  said  Rose;  "though,  to  be  sure,  a  guest  may 
as  well  get  himself  gone  early  and  be  done  with  it.  How  you 
and  Robert  raced,  Cathie !  ^We  did  our  best  to  catch  you  up, 
-but  the  pace  was  too  good." 

Was  there  a  wild  taunt,  a  spice  of  malice  in  the  girl's  reck- 


292 


KOBERT  ELSMERE. 


less  voice?   Catherine  could  not  see  her  in  the  darkness,  x>m 
the  sister  felt  a  sudden  trouble  invade  her. 
Eose,  darling,  you  are  not  tired?" 
"  Oh,  dear,  no !   Good-night,  sleep  well.    What  a  goose  Mrs. 
Darcy  is  r 

And,  barely  submitting  to  be  kissed,  Rose  ran  up  the  steps 
and  upstairs. 

Langham  and  Eobert  smoked  till  midnight.  Langham  for 
the  first  time  gave  Elsmere  an  outline  of  his  plans  for  the  fut- 
ure, and  Robert,  filled  with  dismay  at  this  final  breach  of  Ox- 
ford and  human  society,  and  the  only  form  of  practical  life  pos- 
sible to  such  a  man,  threw  himself  into  protests  more  and  more, 
vigorous  and  affectionate.  Langham  Hstened  to  them  at  first 
with  somber  silence,  then  with  an  impatience  which  gradually 
reduced  Robert  to  a  sore  puffing  at  his  pipe.  There  was  a  long 
space  dm^ing  which  they  sat  together,  the  ashes  of  the  Httle  fire 
Robert  had  made  dropping  on  the  hearth,  and  not  a  word  on 
either  side. 

At  last  Elsmere  could  not  bear  it,  and  when  midnight  struck 
he  sprung  up  with  an  impatient  shake  of  his  long  body,  and 
Langham  took  the  hint,  gave  him  a  cold  good-night,  and  went. 

As  the  door  shut  upon  him  Robert  dropped  back  into  his 
chair,  and  sat  on,  his  face  in  his  hands,  staring  dolefully  at  the 
fire.  It  seemed  to  him  the  world  was  going  crookedly.  A  day 
on  which  a  man  of  singularly  open  and  responsive  temper  makes 
a  new  eaemy,  and  comes  nearer  than  ever  before  to  losing  an 
eld  friend,  shows  very  blackly  to  him  in  the  calendar,^ and,  by 
way  of  aggravation,  Robert  Elsmere  says  to  himself  at  once 
that  somehow  or  other  there  must  be  fault  of  his  own  in  the 
matter. 

j^ose !— pshaw !  Catherine  httle  knows  what  stuff  that  cold 
intangible  soul  is  made  of. 

Meanwhile,  Langham  was  standing  heavily,  looking  out  into 
the  night.  The  different  elements  in  the  mountain  of  discom- 
fort that  weighed  upon  him  were  so  many  that  the  weary  mind 
made  no  attempt  to  analyze  them.  He  had  a  sense  of  disgrace, 
of  having  stabbed  something  gentle  that  had  leaned  upon  him, 
mingled  with  a  strong  intermittent  feehng  of  unutterable  relief. 
Perhaps  his  keenest  regret  was  that,  after  all,  it  had  not  been 
love!  He  had  offered  himself  up  to  a  girl's  just  contempt,  but 
he  had  no  recompense  in  the  shape  of  a  great  addition  to  knowl- 
edge, to  experience.   Save  for  a  few  doubtfixl  moments  at  the 


ROBEBT  ELSMEEE. 


293 


beginning,  when  he  had  all  but-  surprised  himself  in  somettiing 
more  poignant,  what  he  had  been  conscious  of  had  been  noth- 
ing more  than  a  suave  and  delicate  charm  of  sentiment,  a 
subtle  surrender  to  one  exquisite  aesthetic  impression  after 
another.  And  these  things  in  other  relations  the  Y/orld  had 
yielded  him  before. 

Am  I  sane?"  he  muttered  to  himself.  Have  I  ever  been 
sane  ?  -  Probably  not.  The  disproportion  between  my  motives 
and  othpr  men's  is  too  great  to  be  normal.  Well,  at  least  I  am 
sane  enough  to  shut  myself  up.  Long  after  that  beautiful 
child  had  forgotten  she  ever  saw  me  I  ^hall  still  be  doing  pen- 
ance in  the  desert." 

He  threw  himself  down  beside  the  open  window  with  a.groan. 
An  hour  later  he  lifted  a  face  blanched  and  lined,  and  stretched 
out  his  hand  with  avidity  toward  a  book  on  the  table.  It  was 
an  obscure  and  difficult  Greek  text,  and  he  spent  the  greater 
part  of  the  night  over  it,  rekindling  in  himself  with  feverish 
haste  the  embers  of  his  one  lasting  passion. 

Meanwhile,  in  a  room  overhead,  another  last  scene  in  this 
most  futile  of  dramas  was  passing.  Eose,  when  she  came  in, 
had  locked  the  door,  torn  off  her  dress  and  her  ornaments,  and 
flung  herself  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  her  hands  on  her  knees, 
her  shoulders  drooping,  a  fierce  red  spot  on  either  cheek. 
There  for  an  indefinite  time  she  went  through  a  torture  of  self- 
scorn.  The  incidents  of  the^  week  passed  before  her  one  by 
one— her  sallies,  her  defiances,  her  impulsive  friendliness,  the 
elan,  the  happiness  of  the  last  two  days,  the  self-abandonment 
of  this  evening.    Oh,  intolerable — intolerable  ! 

And  all  to  end  with  the  intimation  that  she  had  been  behav- 
ing like  a  forward  child — had  gone  too  far  and  must  be  admon- 
ished—made to  feel  accordingly !  The  poisoned  arrow  pierced 
deeper  and  deeper  ii^*^  girl's  shrinking  pride.  The  very 
foundations  of  self-respect  seemed  overthrown. 

Suddenly  her  eye  caught  a  dim  and  ghostly  reflection  of  her 
own  flgure,  as  she  sat  with  locked  hands  on  the  edge  of  the 
bed,  in  a  long  glass  near,  the  only  one  of  the  kind  which  the 
rectory  household  possessed.  Eose  sprung  up,  snatched  at  the 
candle,  which  was  flickering  in  the  air  of  the  open  window, 
and  stood  erect  before  the  glass,  holding  the  candle  above  her 
head. 

What  the  light  showed  her  was  a  slim  form  in  a  white  dress- 
ing-gown, that  fell  loosely  about  it ;  a  rounded  arm  upstretched ; 


294 


ROBEET  EL8MERE. 


a  head,  still  crowned  with  its  jasmine  wreath,  from  which  the 
bright  hair  fell  heavily  over  shoulders  and  bosom;  eyes,  under 
frowning  brows,  flashing  a  proud  challenge  at  what  they  saw ; 
two  lips  indifferent  red,"  just  open  to  let  the  quick  breath 
come  through—  all  thrown  into  the  wildest  chiaroscuro  by  the 
wavering  candle  flame. 

Her  challenge  was  answered.  The  fault  was  not  there.  Her 
arm  dropped.    She  put  down  the  light. 

am  handsome,"  she  said  to  herself,  her  mouth  quivering 
childishly.    ' '  I  am.    I  may  say  it  to  myself. " 

Then,  standing  by  the  window,  she  stared  into  the  night. 
Her  room,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  house  from  Langham's, 
looked  over  the  corn-fields  and  the  distance.  The  stubbles 
gleamed  faintly ;  the  dark  woods,  the  clouds  teased  by  the  ris- 
ing wind,  sent  a  moaning  voice  to  greet  her. 

I  hate  him  I  I  hate  him  !"  she  cried  to  the  darkness,  clinch- 
ing her  cold  little  hand. 

Then  presently  she  slipped  on  to  her  knees,  and  buried  her 
head  in  the  bed-clothes.  She  was  crying—angry  stifled  tears 
which  had  the  hot  impatience  of  youth  in  them.  It  all  seemed 
to  her  so  untoward.  This  was  not  the  man  she  had  dreamed 
of— the  unknown  of  her  inmost  heart.  He  had  been  young, 
ardent,  impetuous  like  herself.  Hand  in  hand,  eye  flashing 
into  eye,  pulse  answering  to  pulse,  they  would  have  flung  aside 
the  veil  hanging  over  life  and  plundered  the  golden  mysteries 
behind  it. 

She  rebels ;  she  tries  to  see  the  cold,  ahen  nature  which  has 
laid  this  paralyzing  spell  upon  her  as  it  is,  to  reason  herself 
back  to  peace— to  indiflerence.  The  poor  child  flies  from  her 
own  half -understood  trouble ;  will  none  of  it ;  murmurs  again 
wildly: 

''I  hate  him!  I  hate  him!  Cold-blc^ded— ungrateful— un- 
kind!" 

In  vain.  A  pair  of  melancholy  eyes  haunt,  inthrall  her  in- 
most soul.  The  charm  of  the  denied,  the  inaccessible  is  on 
her,  woman-like. 

That  old  sense  of  capture,  of  helplessness,  as  of  some  lassoed 
struggling  creature,  descended  upon  her.  She  lay  sobbing 
there,  trying  to  recall  what  she  had  been  a  week  before ;  the 
whirl  of  her  London  visit,  the  ambitions  with  which  it  had 
filled  her;  the  bewildering  many-colored  lights  it  had  thrown 
upon  life,  the  intoxicating  sense  of  artistic  power.   In  vain. 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


295 


"  The  stream  will  not  flow,  and  the  hills  will  not  rise; 
4-nd  the  colors  have  all  passed  away  from  her  eyes. " 

She  felt  herself  bereft,  despoiled.  And  yet  through  it  all,  as 
she  lay  weeping,  there  came  flooding  a  strange  contradictory 
sense  of  growth,  of  enrichment.  In  such  moments  of  paiB 
does  a  woman  first  begin  to  live  ?  Ah !  why  should  it  hurt  so 
— this  long-awaited  birth  of  the  soul? 


BOOK  IIL—THE  SQUIRE. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

The  evening  of  the  Murewell  Hall  dinner-party  proved  to  bc^ 
a  date  of  some  importance  in  the  lives  of  two  or  three  persons. 
Eose  was  not  likely  to  forget  it ;  Langham  carried  about  with 
him  the  picture  of  the  great  drawing-room,  its  stately  light  and 
shade,  and  its  scattered  figures,  through  many  a  dismal  subse- 
quent hour;  and  to  Robert  it  was  the  beginning  of  a  period  of 
practical  difficulties  such  as  his  fortunate  youth  had  never  yet 
encountered. 

His  conjecture  had  hit  the  mark.  The  squire's  sentiments 
toward  him,  which  had  been  on  the  whole  friendly  enough,  with 
the  exception  of  a'slight  nuance  of  contempt  provoked  in  Mr. 
Wendover's  mind  by  all  forms  of  the  clerical  calling,  had  been 
completely  transformed  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon  before  the 
dinner-party,  and  transformed  by  the  report  of  his  agent.  Hens- 
lowe,  who  knew  certain  sides  of  the  squire's  character  by  heart, 
had  taken  Time  by  the  forelock.  For  fourteen  years  before  Rob- 
ert entered  the  parish  he  had  been  king  of  it.  Mr.  Preston,  Rob- 
ert's predecessor,  had  never  given  him  a  moment's  trouble.  The 
agent  had  developed  a  habit  of  drinking,  had  favored  his  friends 
and  spited  his  enemies,  and  had  allowed  certain  distant  portions 
of  the  estate  to  go  finely  to  ruin,  quite  undisturbed  by  any  senti- 
mental meddling  o|  the  priestly  sort.  Then  the  old  rector  had 
been  gathered  to  the  majority,  and  this  long-legged  busybody 
had  taken  his  place,  a  man,  according  to  the  agent,  as  full  of  com- 
munisticalnotious  as  an  egg  is  full  of  meat,  and  always  ready  to 
poke  his  nose  into  other  people's  business.  And  as  all  men  like 
mastery,  but  especially  Scotchmen,  and  as  during  even  the  first 
few  months  of  the  new  rector's  tenure  of  office  it  became  tolera- 
bly evident  to  Henslowe  that  young  Elsmere  would  soon  become 


296 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


the  ruling  force  of  the  neighborhood  unless  measures  were  taken 
to  prevent  it,  the  agent,  over  his  nocturnal  drams,  bad  taken 
sharp  and  cunning  councils  with  himself  concerning  the  young 
man. 

The  state  of  Mile  End  had  been  originally  the  result  of  indo- 
lence and  caprice  on  his  part  rather  than  of  any  set  pm:pose  of 
neglect.  As  soon,  however,  as  it  was  brought  to  his  notice  by 
Elsmere,  who  did  it,  to  begin  with,  in  the  friendliest  way,  it 
became  a  point  of  honor  with  the  agent  to  let  theplace  go  to  the 
devil,  nay,  to  hurry  it  there.  For  some  time  notwithstanding, 
he  avoided  an  open  breach  with  the  rector.  He  met  Elsmere's 
remonstrances  by  a  more  or  less  civil  show  of  argument,  belied 
every  now  and  then  by  the  sarcasm  of  his  coarse  blue  eye,  and 
so  far  the  two  men  had  kept  outwardly  on  terms.  Elsmere  had 
reason  to  know  that  on  one  or  two  occasions  of  difficulty  in  the 
parish  Henslowe  had  tried  to  do  him  a  mischief.  The  attempts, 
however,  had  not  greatly  succeeded,  and  their  ill-success  had 
probably  excited  in  Elsmere  a  confidence  of  ultimate  victory 
which  had  tended  to  keep  him  cool  in  the  presence  of  Henslowe's 
hostility.  But  Henslowe  had  been  all  along  merely  waiting  for 
the  squire.  He  had  served  the  owner  of  the  Mure  well  estate 
for  fourteen  years,  and  if  he  did  not  know  that  owner's  peculi- 
arities by  this  time,  might  he  obtain  certain  warm  comers  in 
the  next  hfe  to  which  he  was  fond  of  consigning  other  people ! 
It  was  not  easy  to  cheat  the  squire  out  of  money,  but  it  was  quite 
easy  to  play  upon  his  ignorance  of  the  details  of  English  land 
management— ignorance  guaranteed  by  the  learned  habits  of  a 
life-time— on  his  complete  lack  of  popular  sympathy,  and  on  the 
contempt  felt  by  the  disciple  of  Bismarck  and  Mommsen  for  all 
forms  of  altruistic  sentiment.  The  squire  despised  priests.  He 
hated  philanthropic  cants.  Above  all  things  he  respected  his 
own  leisure,  and  was  abnormally,  irritably  sensitive  as  to  any 
possible  inroads  upon  it. 

All  these  things  Henslowe  knew,  and  all  these  things  he  utii 
ized.  He  saw  the  squire  within  forty-eight  hours  of  his  arrival 
at  Murewell.  His  fancy  picture  of  Robert  and  his  doings  was 
introduced  with  adroitness,  and  colored  with  great  skill,  and  he 
left  the  squu^e  walking  up  and  down  his  library,  chafing  alter- 
nately at  the  monstrous  fate  which  had  planted  this  sentimen- 
tal agitator  at  his  gates,  and  at  the  memory  of  his  own  misplaced 
civilities  toward  the  intruder.  In  the  evening  those  civilities 
were  abundantly  avenged,  as  we  have  seen. 


BOBEBt  ELSMEEE. 


29^ 


Robert  was  mucli  perplexed  as  to  his  next  step.  His  heart 
was  very  sore.  The  condition  of  Mile  End— those  gaunt-eyed 
women  and  wasted  children,  all  the  sordid  details  of  their  un- 
just, avoidable  suffering  weighed  upon  his  nerves  perpetually. 
But  he  was  conscious  that  this  state  of  feeling  was  one  of  ten- 
sion, perhaps  of  exaggeration,  and  though  it  was  impossible  he 
shoiild  let  the  matter  alone,  he  was  anxious  to  do  nothing  rashly. 

However,  two  days  after  the  dinner-party  he  met  Henslowe 
on  the  hill  leading  up  to  the  rectory.  Robert  would  have  passed 
the  man  with  a  stiffening  of  his  tall  figure  and  the  slighest  pos- 
sible salutation.  But  the  agent,  just  returned  from  a  round 
wherein  the  bars  of  various  local  inns  had  played  a  conspicuous 
part,  was  in  a  truculent  mood  and  stopped  to  speak.  He  took 
up  the  line  of  insolent  condolence  with  the  rector  on  the  impos- 
sibility of  carrying  his  wishes  with  regard  to  Mile  End  into  ef- 
fect. They  had  been  laid  before  the  squire,  of  course,  but  the 
squire  had  his  own  ideas  and  wasn't  just  easy  to  manage. 

''Seen  him  yet,  sir  ?"  Henslowe  wound  up,  jauntily,  every 
line  of  his  flushed  countenance,  the  full  lips  under  the  fair 
beard,  and  the  light  prominent  eyes,  expressing  a  triumph  he 
hardly  cared  to  conceal.  %  ■ 

'Thave  seen  him,  but  I  have  not  talked  to  him  on  this  par- 
ticular matter,"  said  the  rector,  quietly,  though  the  red  mount- 
ed in  his  cheek.  ' '  You  may,  however,  be  very  sure,  Mr.  Hens- 
lowe, that  everything  I  know  about  Mile  End  the  squire  shall 
know  before  long. 

''Oh,  Lor'  bless  me,  sir!"  cried  Henslowe,  with  a  guffaw, 
"it's  all  one  to  me.  And  if  the  squire  ain't  satisfied  with  the 
way  his  work's  done  now,  why  he  can  take  you  on  as  a  second 
string,  you  know.  You'd  show  us  all,  I'll  be  bound,  how  to 
make  the  money  fly." 

Then  Robert's  temper  gave  way,  and  he  turned  upon  the 
half -drunken  brute  before  him  with  a  few  home-truths  delivered 
with  a  rapier-like  force  which  for  the  moment  staggered  Hens- 
lowe, who  turned  from  red  to  purple.  The  rector,  with  some 
of  those  pitiful  memories  of  the  hamlet,  of  which  we  had 
glimpses  in  his  talk  with  Langham,  burning  at  his  heart,  felt 
the  man  no  better  than  a  murderer,  and  as  good  as  told  him  so. 
Then,  without  giving  him  time  Jp  reply,  Robert  strode  on,  leav- 
ing Henslowe  planted  in  the  pathway.  But  he  was  hardly  up 
the  hill  before  the  agent,  having  recovered  himself  by  dint  of 
copious  expletives,  was  looking  after  him  with  a  grim  chuckle. 


298 


He  knew  his  master,  and  he  knew  himself,  and  he  thought  be- 
tween them  they  would  abput  manage  to  keep  that  young 
spark  in  order. 

Robert  meanwhile  went  straight  home  into  his  study,  and 
there  fell  upon  ink  and  paper.  What  was  the  good  of  protract- 
ing the  matter  any  longer  ?  Something  must  and  should  be 
done  for  these  people,  if  not  one  way,  then  another. 

So  he  wrote  to  the  squire,  showing  the  letter  to  Catherine 
when  it  was  done,  lest  there  should  be  anything  overfierce  in  it. 
It  was  the  simple  record  of  twelve  months'  experience  told  with 
dignity  and  strong  feeling.  Henslowe  was barely  mentioned  in 
it,  and  the  chief  burden  of  the  letter  was  to  implore  the  squire 
to  come  and  inspect  certain  portions  of  his  property  with  his 
own  eyes.    The  rector  would  be  at  his  service  any  day  or  hour. 

Husband  and  wife  went  anxiously  through  the  document,  • 
softening  here,  improving  there,  and  then  it  was  sent  to  the 
Hall.  Robert  waited  nervously  through  the  day  for  an  answer. 
In  the  evening,  while  he  and  Catherine  were  in  the  foot-path 
after  dinner,  watching  a  chilly  autumnal  moonrise  over  the 
stubbles  of  the  corn-field,  the  answer  came. 

''H'm,"  said  Robert,  dubiously,  as  he  opened  it,  holding  it 
up  to  the  moonlight;    can't  be  said  to  be  lengthy." 

He  and  Catherine  hurried  into  the  house.  Robert  read  the 
letter,  and  handed  it  to  her  without  a  word. 

After  some  curt  references  to  one  or  two  miscellaneous  points 
raised  in  the  latter  part  of  the  rector's  letter,  the  squire  wound 
up  as  follows: 

As  for  the  bulk  of  your  communication,  I  am  at  a  loss  to 
understand  the  vehemence  of  your  remarks  on  the  subject  of 
my  Mile  End  property.  My  agent  informed  me  shortly  after 
my  return  home  that  you  had  been  concerning  yourself  greatly, 
and,  as  he  conceived,  unnecessarily  about  the  matter.  Allow, 
me  to  assure  you  that  I  have  full  confidence  in  Mr.  Henslowe, 
who  has  been  in  the  district  for  as  many  years  as  you  have  spent 
months  in  it,  and  whose  authority  on  points  connected  with  the. 
business  management  of  my  estate  naturally  carries  more  weight 
with  me,  if  you  will  permit  i?ae  to  say  so,  than  yom'  own. 
I  am,  sir,  your  obedient  servant, 

#         ' '  Roger  Wendo ver.  " 

Catherine  returned  the  letter  to  her  husband  with  a  look  of 
dismay.   He  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  chimney-piece, 


ROBERT  ELSMERK,  299 

his  bands  thrv^st  far  into  his  pockets,  hi?  upper  lip  quivering.  In 
his  happy  expansive  life  this  was  the  sharpest  personal  rebuff 
thati  had  ever  happened  to  him.  He  jould  not  but  smart  under 
it. 

**Not  a  word,"  he  said,  tossing  j^is  hair  back  impetuously ,  as 
Catherine  stood  opposite  watching  him— ''not  one  single  word 
about  the  miserable  people  themselves  1  What  kind  of  stuff 
can  the  man  be  made  of 

''  Does  he  believe  you  ?"  a&ked  Catherme,  bewildered. 
If  not,  one  must  try  nr>d  make  him,"  he  said,  energetically, 
after  a  moment's  pause.    ''To-morrow,  Catherine,  I  go  down 
to  the  Hall  and  see  him." 

She  quietly  acquier.ced,  and  the  following  afternoon,  first 
thing  after  luncheor,  she  watched  him  go,  her  tender,  inspiring 
look  dwelling  with  him  as  he  crossed  the  park,  which  was  lying 
delicately  wrapped  in  one  of  the  whitest  of  autumnal  mists,  the 
sun  just  plaririg  through  it  with  pale,  invading  shafts. 

The  butl'Br  looked  at  him  with  some  doubtfulness.  It  was 
never  safe  io  admit  visitors  for  the  squire  without  orders.  But 
he  and  Eobert  had  special  relations.  As  the  possessor  of  a  bass 
voice  worthy  of  his  girth,  Vincent,  under  Eobert's  rule,  had 
become  the  pillar  of  the  choir,  and  it  was  not  easy  for  him  to 
refuse  the  rector. 

So  Eobert  was  led  in,  through  the  hall,  and  down  the  long 
passage  to  the  curtained  door,  which  he  knew  so  well. 

''Mr.  Elsmere,  sir!" 

There  was  a  sudden  hasty  movement.  Eobert  passed  a  mag- 
nificent lacquered  screen  newly  placed  round  the  door,  and 
found  himself  in  the  squire's  presence. 

The  squire  had  half  risen  from  his  seat  in  a  capacious  chair, 
with  a  litter  of  books  round  it,  and  confronted  his  visitor  with 
a  look  of  surprised  annoyance.  The  figure  of  the  rector,  tall, 
thin,  and  youthful,  stood  out  against  the  delicate  browns  and 
whites  of  the  book-lined  walls.  The  great  room,  so  impressive 
ly  bare  when  Eobert  and  Langham  had  last  seen  it,  was  no^ 
full  of  the  signs  of  a  busy  man's  constant  habitation.  An  odor 
of  smoke  pervaded  it;  the  table  in  the  window  was  piled  with 
books  just  unpacked,  and  the  half-emptied  case  from  which 
they  had  been  taken  lay  on  the  ground  beside  the  squire'fc^ 
chair. 

"I  persuaded  Vincent  to  admit  me,  Mr.  Wendover,"  said 
Eobert,  advancing  hat  in  hand,  while  the  squire  hastily  ^zf 


300  ^OBEET  ELSMEEE. 

down  the  German  professor's  pipe  he  had  just  heen  enjoying, 
and  coldly  accepted  his  proffered  greeting.  ''I  should  have 
preferred  not  to  disturb  you  without  an  appointment,  but  af- 
ter your  letter  it  seemed  to  me  some  prompt  p^^rsonal  explana- 
tion was  necessary." 

The  squire  stiffly  motioned  toward  a  chair,  which  Robert 
took,  and  then  slipped  back  into  his  own,  bis  w-nnkled  eyes 
fixed  on  the  intruder. 

Eobert,  conscious  of  almost  intolerable  embarrassment,  bu\ 
maintaining  in  spite  of  it  an  excellent  degree  of  self-control, 
plunged  at  once  into  business.  He  took  the  letter  he  had  just 
received  from  the  squire  as  a  text,  made  a  good-humored  de- 
fense of  his  own  proceedings,  described  his  attempt  to  move 
Henslowe,  and  the  reluctance  of  his  appeal  from  the  man  to 
the  master.  The  few  things  he  allowed  himself  to  say  about 
Henslowe  were  in  perfect  temper,  though  by  no  means  with- 
out an  edge. 

Then,  having  disposed  of  the  more  personal  aspects  of  the 
matter,  he  paused,  and  looked  hesitatingly  at  the  face  opposite 
him,  more  like  a  bronzed  mask  at  this  moment  than  a  human 
countenance.  The  squire,  however,  gave  him  no  help.  He 
had  received  his  remarks  so  far  in  perfect  silence,  and  seeing 
that  there  were  more  to  come,  he  waited  for  them  with  the 
same  ligidity  of  look  and  attitude. 

So,  after  a  moment  or  two,  Eobert  went  on  to  describe  in  de- 
tail some  of  those  individual  cases  of  hardship  and  disease  at 
Mile  End,  durmg  the  preceding  year,  which  could  be  most 
clearly  laid  to  the  sanitary  condition  of  the  place.  Filth,  damp, 
leaking  roofs,  foul  floors,  poisoned  water— he  traced  to  each 
some  ghastly  human  ill,  telling  his  stories  with  a  nervous 
brevity,  a  suppressed  fire,  which  would  have  burned  them  into 
the  sense  of  almost  any  other  listener.  Not  one  of  these  woes 
but  he  and  Catherine  had  tended  with  a  sickening  pity  and 
labor  of  body  and  mind.  That  side  of  it  he  kept  rigidly  out  of 
sight.  But  all  that  he  could  hurl  against  the  squire's  feehng, 
as  it  were,  he  gathered  up,  strangely  conscious  through  it  all 
of  his  own  young  persistent  yearning  to  right  himself  with  this 
man,  whose  mental  history,  as  it  lay  chronicled  in  these  rooms, 
had  been  to  him,  at  a  time  of  intellectual  hunger,  so  stimulat- 
ing, so  enriching. 

But  passion  and  reticence  and  hidden  sympathy  were  alike 
lost  upon  the  squire.    Before  he  paused  Mr.  Wendover  bNt 


\  BOBEET  ELSMERE.  ^Vi 

already  ri^n  restlessly  from  his  chair,  and  from  the  rug  was 

glowering  d6wn  on  his  unwelcome  visitor. 

Good  heavens!  had  he  come  home  to  be  lectured  in  his  own 
i  library  by  this  fanatical  slip  of  a  parson?  As  for  his  stories, 
1  the  squire  barely  took  the  trouble  to  listen  to  them. 

Every  popularity -hunting  fool,  with  a  passion  for  putting  his 
I  hand  into  other  people's  pockets,  can  tell  pathetic  stories;  but 

it  was  intolerable  that  his  scholar's  privacy  should  be  at  the 

mercy  of  one  of  the  tribe. 
"  Mr.  Elsmere,"  he  broke  out  at  last  with  contemptuous 
I  emphasis,  "I  imagine  it  would  have  been  better—infinitely 
1  better— to  have  spared  both  yourself  and  me  the  disagreeables 
I  of  this  interview.  However,  I  am  not  sorry  we  should  under- 
I  stand  each  other.  I  have  lived  a  life  which  is  at  least  double 
^  the  length  of  yours  in  very  tolerable  peace  and  comfort.  The 

world  has  been  good  enough  for  me,  and  I  for  it,  so  far.  I 

have  been  master  in  my  own  estate,  and  intend  to  remain  so. 

As  for  the  new-fangled  ideas  of  a  land-owner's  duty,  with 
'  which  your  mind  seems  to  be  fulP'—the  scornful  irritation  of 
I  the  tone  was  unmistakable— I  have  never  dabbled  in  them, 
1  nor  do  I  intend  to  begin  now.  I  am  like  the  rest  of  my  kind; 
!  I  have  no  money  to  chuck  away  in  building  schemes,  in  order 

that  the  rector  of  the  parish  may  pose  as  the  apostle  of  the  ag-* 

ricultural  laborer.    That,  however,  is  neither  here  nor  there. 

What  is  to  the  purpose  is,  that  my  business  affairs  are  in  the 
I  hands  of  a  business  man,  deliberately  chosen  and  approved  by 
i  me,  and  that  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  them.  Nothing  at  aU !" 
i  he  repeated  with  emphasis.  It  may  seem  to  you  very  shock- 
j  ing.   You  may  regard  it  as  the  object  in  life  of  the  English 

land-owner  to  inspect  the  pig-stys  and  amend  the  habits  of  the 
i  Enghsh  laborer.  I  don't  quarrel  with  the  conception,  I  only 
I  ask  you  not  to  expect  me  to  live  up  to  it.  I  am  a  student  first 
I  and  foremost,  and  desire  to  be  left  to  my  books.  Mr.  Henslo we 
I  is  there  on  purpose  to  protect  my  literary  freedom.  What  he 
I  thinks' desirable  is  good  enough  for  me,  as  I  have  already  in- 
j  formed  you.  I  am  sorry  for  it  if  his  methods  do  not  commend 
i  themselves  to  you.  But  I  have  yet  to  learn  that  tKe  rector 
I  of  the  parish  has  an  ex-officio  right  to  interfere  between  a 
!  landlord  and  his  tenants."  " 

i  Kobert  kept  his  temper  with  some  difficulty.  After  a  pause 
he  said,  feeling  desperately,  however,  that  the  suggestion  was 
not  likely  to  improve  matters: 


302 


ROBEET  ELSMEEE. 


"  If  I  were' to  take  all  the  trouble  and  all  the  expense  oft 
your  hands,  Mr.  Wendover,  would  it  be  impossible  for  you  to 
authorize  me  to  make  one  or  two  alterations  most  urgently 
necessary  for  the  improvment  of  the  Mile  End  cottages?" 

The  Bquire  burst  into  an  angry  laugh. 

''I  have  never  yet  been  in  the  habit,  Mr.  Elsmere,  of  doing 
my  repairs  by  public  subscription.  You  ask  a  little  too  much 
from  an  old  man's  powers  of » adaptation." 

Robert  rose  from  his  seat,  his  hand  trembhng  as  it  rested  on 
his  walking-stick. 

*'Mr.  Wendover,"  he  said,  speaking  at  last,  with  a  flash  of 
answering  scorn  in  his  young,  vibrating  voice,  ''what  I  think 
you  cannot  understand  is  that  at  any  moment  a  hrnnan 
creature  may  sicken  and  die,  poisoned  by  the  state  of  your 
property,  for  which  you— and  nobody  else— are  ultimately  re- 
sponsible." 

The  squire  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

''So  you  say,  Mr.  Elsmere.  K  true,  every  person  in  such  a 
condition  has  a  remedy  in  his  own  hands.  I  force  no  one  to 
remain  on  my  property." 

''The  people  who  hve  there,"  exclaimed  Robert,  "have 
neithep  home  nor  subsistence  if  they  are  driven  out.  Murewell 
is  full — times  bad — most  of  the  people  old." 

''And  eviction  '  a  sentence  of  death,'  I  suppose,"  inteiTupted 
the  squire,  studying  him  with  sarcastic  eyes.  "Well,  I  have 
no  belief  in  a  Gladstonian  Ireland,  still  less  in  a  Radical  Eng- 
land. Supply  and  demand  cause  and  effect,  are  enough  for 
me.  The  Mile  End  cottages  are  out  of  repair,  Mr.  Elsmere, 
so  Mr.  Henslowe  tells  me,  because  the  site  is  unsuitable,  the 
type  of  cottage  out  of  date.  People  live  in  them  at  their 
peril;  I  don't  pull  them  down,  or  rather"— correcting  himself 
with  exasperating  consistency— "  Mr.  Henslowe  doesn't  pull 
them  down,  because,  like  other  men,  I  suppose,  he  dislikes  an 
outcry.  But  if  the  population  stays,  it  stays  at  its  own  risk. 
Now  have  I  made  myself  plain?" 

The  two  men  eyed  one  another. 

"Perfectly  plain,"  said  Robert,  quietly.  "Allow  me  to  re- 
mind you,  Mr.  Wendover,  that  there  are  other  matters  than 
eviction  capable  of  provoking  an  outcry." 

"  As  you  please,"  said  the  other,  indifferently.    "  I  have  no  . 
doubt  I  shaU  find  myself  in  the  newspapers  before  long.    If  so, 
I  dare  say  I  shall  manage  to  put  up  with  it.   Society  is  made:\ 


ROBERT  ELSMERE.  BOO 

up  of  fanatics  and  the  creatures  they  hunt.  If  I  am  to  be 
hunted  I  shstll  be  in  good  company." 

Eobert  stood  hat  in  hand,  tormented  with  a  dozen,  cross- 
currents of  feehng.  He  was  forcibly  struck  with  the  bhnd 
and  comparatively  motiveless  pugnacity  of  the  squire's  con- 
duct. There  was  an  extravagance  in  it  which  for  the  first 
time  recalled  to  him  old  Meyrick's  lucubrations. 

"I  have  done  no  good,  I  see,  Mr.  Wendover,"  he  said  at 
last,  slowly.  ^'I  v/ish  I  could  have  induced  you  to  do  an  act 
of  justice  and  mercy.  I  wish  I  could  have  made  you  think 
more  kindly  of  myself.  I  have  failed  in  both.  It  is  useless  to 
keep  you  any  longer.  Good-morning." 

He  bowed.  The  squire  also  bent  forward.  At  that  moment 
Robert  caught  sight  beside  his  shoulder  of  an  antique,  stand- 
ing on  the  mantel-piece,  which  was  a  new  addition  to  the  room. 
It  was  a  head  of  Medusa,  and  the  frightful  stony  calm  of  it 
struck  on  Elsmere's  ruffled  nerves  with  extraordinary  force. 
It  flashed  across  him  that  here  was  an  apt  syjnbol  of  that  ab- 
sorbing and  overgrown  life  of  the  intellect  which  blights  the 
heart  and  chiUs  the  senses.  And  to  that  spiritual  Medusa  the 
man  before  him  was  not  the  first  victim  he  had  known. 

Possessed  with  the  fancy,  the  young  man  made  his  way  into 
the  hall.  Arrived  there,  he  looked  round  with  a  kind  of  pas- 
sionate regret,  "Shall  I  ever  see  this  again?"  he  asked  him- 
self. During  the  past  twelve  months  his  pleasure  in  the  great 
house  had  been  much  more  than  sensuous.  Within  those  wails 
his  mind  had  grown,  had  reached  to  a  fuller  stature  than  before, 
and  a  man  loves,  or  should  love,  all  that  is  associated  with  the 
maturing  of  his  best  self. 

He  closed  the  ponderous  doors  behind  him  sadly.  The  mag- 
nificent pile,  grander  than  ever  in  the  sunny  autumnal  mist 
which  inwrapped  it,  seemed  to  look  after  him  as  he  walked 
away,  mutely  wondering  that  he  should  have  allowed  anything 
so  trivial  as  a  peasant's  grievance  to  come  between  him  and  its 
perfections. 

In  the  wooded  lane  outside  the  rectory  gate  he  overtook  Cath 
erine.  He  gave  her  his  report,  and  they  walked  on  together, 
arm-in-arm,  a  very  depressed  pair. 

What  shall  you  do  next  ?"  she  asked  him. 

"Make  out  the  law  of  the  matter,"  he  said,  briefly. 

"  If  you  get  over  the  inspector,"  said  Catherine,  anxiously, 

I  am  tolerably  certain  Henslowe  will  turn  out  the  people." ' 


3 

304  ROBERT  ELSMEKE. 

He  w^uld  not  dare,  Robert  thought.  At  any  rate,  the  law 
existed  for  such  cases,  and  it  was  his  bounden  duty  to  call  the 
inspector's  attention. 

Catherine  did  not  see  what  good  could  be  done  thereby,  and 
feared  harm.  But  her  wifely  chivalry  felt  that  he  must  get 
through  his  first  serious  practical  trouble  his  own  way.  She 
saw  th^t  he  felt  himself  distressingly  young  and  inexperienced, 
and  would  not  for  the  world  have  harassed  him  by  overad- 
vice. 

So  she  let  him  alone,  and  presently  Robert  threw  the  matter 
from  him  with  a  sigh. 

Let  it  be  awhile,"  he  said,  with  a  shake  of  his  long  frame. 
''I  shall  get  morbid  over  it  if  I  don't  mind.  I  am  a  selfish 
wretch,  too.    I  know  you  have  worries  of  yoiu-  own,  wifie." 

And  he  took  her  hand  under  the  trees  and  kissed  it  with  a 
boyish  tenderness. 

^^Yes,"  said  Catherine,  sighing,  and  then  paused.  Rob- 
ert," she  burst  out  again,  I  am  certain  that  man  made  love 
of  a  kind  to  Rose.  He  will  never  think  of  it  again,  but  since 
the  night  before  last  she,  to  my  mind,  is  simply  a  changed 
creature." 

I  don't  see  it,"  said  Robert,  doubtfully. 

Catherine  looked  at  him  with  a  httle  angel  scomjin  her  gray 
eyes.  That  men  should  make  their  seeing  in  such  matters  the 
measure  of  the  visible ! 

You  have  been  studying  the  squii^e,  sir~I  have  been  study- 
ing Rose." 

Then  she  poured  out  her  heart  to  him,  describing  the  little 
signs  of  change  and  suffering  her  anxious  sense  had  noted,  in 
spite  of  Rose's  proud  effort  to  keep  all  the  world,  but  especially 
Catherine's,  at  arm's-length.  And  at  the  end  her  feeling  swept 
her  into  a  denunciation  of  Langham,  which  was  to  Robei-t  like 
a  breath  from  the  past,  from  those  stern  hills  wherein  he  met 
her  first.  The  happiness  of  their  married  life  had  so  softened 
or  masked  all  her  ruggedness  of  character  that  there  was  a 
certain  joy  in  seeing  those  strong  forces  in  her  which  had  struck 
him  first  reappear. 

*'0f  course  I  feel  myself  to  blame,"  he  said,  when  she 
stopped.  But  how  can  one  foresee,  with  such  an  inveterate 
hermit  and  recluse  ?   And  I  owed  him— I  owe  him— so  much." 

"I  know."  said  Catherine,  but  frowning  still.  It  probably 
seemed  to  ner  tnat  that  old  debt  had  been  more  than  effaced. 


ROBEET  ELSMEBE.  305 

\  You  will  have  to  send  her  to  Berlin,"  said  Elsmere,  after 
a  pause.    "You  must  play  off  her  music  against  this  unlucky 

I  feeling.   If  it  exists  it  is  your  only  chance." 

I      Yes,  she  must  go  to  Berlin,"  said  Catherine,  slowly. 

i  Then  presently  she  looked  up,  a  flash  of  exquisite  feeling 
breaking  up  the  delicate  resolution  of  the  face. 

^'lam  not  sad  about  that,  Eobert.  Oh,  how  you  have 
widened  my  world  for  me !" 

Suddenly  that  hour  in  Marrisdale  came  back  to  her.  They 
werebAJ*-  the  wood-path.  She  crept  inside  her  husband's  arm 
and  put  up  her  face  to  him,  swept  away  by  an  overmastering 

I  impulse  of  self -humiliating  love. 

The  next  day  Eobert  w^alked  over  t(>  the  little  market  town 

■  jj  of  Churton,  saw  the  discreet  and  long-established  solicitor  of 

I  the  place,  and  got  from  him  a  complete  account  of  the  present 
state  of  the  rural  sanitary  law.   The  first  step  clearly  was  to 

|imove  the  sanitary  inspector;  if  that  failed  for  any  reason,  then 

jany  bond  fide  inhabitant  had  an  appeal  to  the  local  sanitary 
authority,  viz.,  the  board  of  guardiar^.  Eobert  walked  home 
pondering  his  information,  and  totally  ignorant  that  Henslowe, 
who  was  always  at  Churton  on  market-days,  had  been  in  the 
market  place  at  the  moment  when  the  rector's  tall  figure  had 
disappeared  within  Mr.  Dunstan's  office  door.  That  door  was 
unpleasantly  known  to  the  agent  in  connection  with  some 
energetic  measures  for  raising  money  he  had  been  lately  under 
the  necessity  of  employing,  and  it  had  a  way  of  attracting  his 
eyes  by  means  of  the  fascination  that  often  attaches  to  disa- 

i  greeable  objects. 

I  In  the  evening  Eose  was  sitting  listlessly  in  the  drawing- 
ijroom.  Catherine  was  not  there,  go  her  novel  was  on  her  lap, 
j  and  her  eyes  were  staring  intently  into  a  world  whereof  they 

only  had  the  key.  Suddenly  there  was  a  ring  at  the  bell. 
I  The  servant  came,  and  there  were  several  voices  and  a  sound 
I  of  much  shoe-scraping.   Then  the  swing-door  leading  to  the 

study  opened  and  Elsmere  and  Catherine  came  out. ,  Elsmere 
j  stopped  with  an  exclamation. 

I  His  visitors  were  two  men  from  Mile  End.  One  w^as  old  Mil- 
j  som,  more  sallow  and  palsied  than  ever.  As  he  stood  bent  al- 
I  most  double,  his  old  knotted  hand  resting  for  support  on  the 
I  table  beside  him,  everything  in  the  little  hall  seemed  to  shake 
I  with  him.  The  other  was  Sharland,  the  handsome  father  of 
the  twins,  whose  wife  had  been  fed  by  Catherine  with  every 


306 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


imaginable  delicacy  since  Eobert's  last  visit  to  the  hamlet. 
Even  his  strong  youth  had  begun  to  show  signs  of  premature 
decay.  The  rolling  gypsy  eyes  were  growing  sunken,  the 
limbs  dragged  a  little. 

They  had  come  to  implore  the  rector  to  let  Mile  End  alone. 
Henslowe  had  been  over  there  in  the  afternoon,  and  had  given 
them  all  very  plainly  to  understand  that  if  Mr.  Elsmere  med- 
dled any  more  they  would  all  be  turned  out  at  a  week's  notice  ■ 
to  shift  as  they  could.  And  if  you  don't  find  Thurston  Com- 
mon nice  lying  this  weather,  v/ith  the  winter  coming  oi^^^ou'll  | 
know  who  to  thank  for  it,"  the  agent  had  flung  behind  him  as 
he  rode  off.  .  ! 

Eobert  turned  white.  Eose,  watching  the  little  scene  with 
listless  eyes,  saw  him  towering  over  the  group  like  an  em- 
bodiment of  wrath  and  pity. 

If  they  turn  us  out,  sir,"  said  old  Milsom,  wistfully,  look^ ' 
ing  up  at  Elsmere  with  blear  eyes,  there'll  be  nothing  left  but  j 
the  house  for  us  old  'uns.  Why,  Lor'  bless  you,  sir,  it's  not  so  I 
bad  but  we  can  make  shift. " 

''You,  Milsom  !"  cried  Eobert;  ''and  you've  just  all  but 
lost  your  grandchild  I   And  you  know  your  wife'll  never  be  j 
the  same  woman  since  that  bout  of  fever  in  the  spring. 
And—" 

His  quick  eyes  ran  over  the  old  man's  broken  frame  with  a 
world  of  indignant  meaning  in  them. 

"Ay,  ay,  sir,"  said  Milsom,  unmoved.  *'But  if  it  isn't, 
fevers,  it's  summat  else.  I  can  make  a  shilling  or  two  where- 
I  be,  speshaUy  in  the  first  part  of  the  year,  in  the  basket-work,  | 
and  my  wife  she  goes  charring  up  at  Mr.  Carter's  farm,  and  Mr. 
Dodson,  him  at  the  further  farm,  he  do  give  us  a  bit  some- 
times. Ef  you  git  us  turned  away  it  will  be  a  bad  day  s  work 
for  all  on  us,  sir,  you  may  take  my  word  on  it. " 

''And  my  wife  so  ill,  Mr.  Elsmere,"  said  Sharland,  "and 
all  thoselchilder  !  I  can't  walk  three  miles  further  to  my  work, 
Mr.  Elsmere,  I  can't  nohow.  I  haven't  got  the  legs  for  it.  Let 
un  be,  sir.    We'll  rub  along." 

Eobert  tried  to  argue  the  matter. 

If  they  would  but  stand  by  him  he  would  fight  the  matter 
through,  and  they  should  not  suffer,  if  he  had  to  get  up  a  pub- 
lic subscription,  or  support  them  out  of  his  own  pocket  all  thei 
winter.  A  bold  front,  and  Mr.  Henslowe  must  give  way.  The 
law  on  their  side,  and  every  laborer  in  Surrey  would  be  the 


BOB^:^^  EJLSMEEE. 


307 


;  better  off  for  their  refusal  to  be  housed  hke  pigs  and  poisoned 
jlike  vermin. 

In  vain.  There  is  an  inexhaustible  store  of  cautious  endur- 
ance in  the  poor  against  which  the  keenest  reformer  constantly 
j  throwshimseif  in  vain.  Elsmere  was  beaten.  The  two  men 
I  got  his  word,  and  shufHed  off  back  to  their  pestilential  hovels, 
a  pathetic  content  beaming  on  each  face. 

Catherine  and  Kobert  went  back  into  the  study.  Eose  heard 
I  her  brother-in-law's  passionate  sigh  as  the  door  swung  behind 
them. 

Defeated!"  she  said  to  herself,  with  a  curious  accent, 
j  ^'  Well,  everybody  must  have  his  turn.  Eobert  has  been  too 
I  successful  in  his  life,  I  think.  You  wretch  !"  she  added,  after 
a  minute,  laying  her  bright  head  down  on  the  book  before 

•her. 

Next  morning  his  wife  found  Elsmere  after  breakfast  busily 
jl  packing  a  case  of  books  in  the  study.   They  were  books  from 

the  Hall  library,  which  so  far  had  been  for  months  the  insepar- 

able  companions  of  his  historical  work. 
\    Catherine  stood  and  watched  him  sadly. 
I      Must  you,  Eobert  f 

jl    ''I  won't  be  beholden  to  that  man  for  anything  an  hour 

longer  than  I  can  help, "  he  answered  her. 
j    When  the  packing  was  nearly  finished  he  came  up  to  where 

she  stood  in  the  open  window. 

Things  won't  be  as  easy  for  us  in  the  future,  darling,"  he 
j  said  to  her.    ' '  A  rector  with  both  squire  and  agent  against  him 

is  rather  heavily  handicapped.   We  must  make  up  our  minds 

to  that." 

I  have  no  great  fear,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  proudly. 
^'Oh,  well— nor  I— perhaps,"  he  admitted,  after  a  moment. 
We  can  hold  our  own.    But  I  wish— oh,  I  wish"— and  he 
{  laid  his  hand  on  his  wife's  shoulder— I  could  have  made 
I  friends  with  the  squire." 

Catherine  looked  less  responsive. 

As  squire,  Eobert,  or  as  Mr.  Wendover  ?" 
^'As  both,  of  course,  but  specially  as  Mr.  Wendover." 
We  can  do  without  his  friendship,"  she  said,  with  energy. 
I    Eobert  gave  a  great  stretch,  as  though  to  work  off  his  regrets, 
i     "Ah,  but,"  he  said,  half  to  himself,  as  his  arms  dropped, 
if  you  are  just  filled  with  the  hunger  to  know,  the  people 


308  KOBERT  ELSMERE.  ■ 

who  know  as  much  as  the  squire  become  very  interesting  to  i 
you."  ! 

Catherine  did  not  answer.    But  probably  her  heart  went 
out  once  more  in  protest  against  a  knowledge  that  was  to  her  . 
but  a  form  of  revolt  against  the  awful  powers  of  man's  des- 
tiny. 

However,  here  go  his  books,"  said  Robert. 

Two  days  later  Mrs.  Leyburn  and  Agnes  made  their  appear- 
ance, Mrs.  Leyburn  all  in  a  flutter  concerning  the  event  over.! 
which,  in  her  own  opinion,  she  had  come  to  preside.    In  hen 
gentle  fluid  mind  all  impressions  were  short-lived.    She  had  1 
forgotten  how  she  had  brought  up  her  own  babies,  but  Mrs. 
Thornburgh,  who  had  never  had  any,  had  filled  her  full  of  i 
nursery  lore.    She  sat  retailing  a  host  of  second-hand  hints  and  I 
instructions  to  Catherine,  who  would  every  now  and  then  lay ; 
her  hand  smiHng  on  her  mother's  knee,  well  pleased  to  see  the 
flush  of  pleasure  on  the  pretty  old  face,  and  ready,  in  her  pa- 
tient fihal  way,  to  let  herseK  be  experimented  on  to  thet  utmost, 
if  it  did  but  make  the  poor  foolish  thing  happy. 

Then  came  a  night  when  every  soul  in  the  quiet  rectory, 
even  hot,  smarting  Eose,  was  possessed  by  one  thought  through 
many  terrible  hours,  and  one  only— the  though  of  Catherine's 
safety.    It  was  strange  and  unexpected,  but  Catherine,  t^ 
most  normal  and  healthy  of  women,  had  a  hard  stfuggle  forr 
her  own  life,  and  her  child's,  and  it  was  not  tiU  the  gray 
autumn  morning,  after  a  day  and  night  which  left  a  permanent  t 
mark  on  Robert,  that  he  was  summoned  at  last,  and  with  the 
sense  of  one  emerging  from  black  gulfs  of  terror,  received  from  i 
his  wife's  languid  hand  the  tiny  fingers  of  his  first-bom. 

The  days  that  followed  were  full  of  emotion  for  these  two 
people,  who  were  perhaps  always  overserious,  oversensitive. 
They  had  no  idea  of  minimizing  the  great  common  experiences 
of  life.  Both  of  them  were  really  simple,  brought  up  in  old- 
fashioned  simple  ways,  easily  touched,  responsive  to  all  that 
high  spiritual  education  which  flows  from  the  f amihar  incidents 
of  the  human  story,  approached  poetically  and  passionately. 
As  the  young  husband  sat  in  the  quiet  of  his  wife's  room  the 
occasional  restless  movements  of  the  small  brown  head  against  i 
her  breast  causing  the  only  sound  perceptible  in  the  country 
silence,  he  felt  all  the  deep  familiar  currents  of  human  feeling 
sweeping  through  him — lovejj'everence,  thanksgiving — and  all 


P  ROBERT  ELSMERE.  309 

'  i  •• 

the  walls  of  the  soul,  as  it  were,  expanding  and  enlarging  as 
they  passed. 

Responsive  creature  that  he  was,  the  experience  of  these 
!  days  was  hardly  happiness.    It  went  too  deep ;  it  brought  him 
too  poignantly  near  to  all  that  is  most  real  and  therefore  most 
I  tragic  in  life. 

Catherine's  recovery  also  was  slower  than  might  have  been 
expected,  considering- her  constitutional  soundness,  and  for  the 
ifirst  week,  after  that  faint  moment  of  joy  when  her  child  was 
,  laid  upon  her  arm,  and  she  saw  her  husband's  quivering  face 
above  her,  there  was  a  kind  of  depression  hovering  over  her. 
;  Robert  felt  it,  and  felt  too  that  all  his  devotion  could  not  soothe 
it  away.    At  last  she  said  to  him  one  evening,  in  the  encroach- 
ing  September  twilight,  spea^iing  with  a  sudden  hurrying 
j  vehemence,  wholly  unhke  her.:3lf,  as  though  a  barrier  of  re 
J  serve  had  given  way: 

Robert,  I  can  not  put  it  out  of  my  head.   I  can  not  forget 
it,  the  pain  of  the  world  /" 

He  shut  the  book  he  was  reading,  her  hand  in  his,  and  bent 
over  her  with  questioning  eyes. 

It  seems,"  she  went  on  with  that  difficulty  which  a  strong 
;  nature  always  feels  in  self -revelation,  "to  take  the  joy  even  out 
of  our  love— and  the  child.    I  feel  ashamed  almost  that  mere 

I  physical  pain  should  have  laid  such  hold  on  me— and  yet  I 
'  j  can't  get  away  from  it.    It's  not  for  myself,"  and  she  smiled 

!  faintly  at  him.      Comparatively  I  had  so  little  to  bear  !  But 

I I  know  now  for  the  first  time  what  physical  pain  may  mean— 

I  and  I  never  knew  before.  I  lie  thinking,  Robert,  about  all 
creatures  in  pain — workmen  crushed  by  machinery,  or  soldiers 
—or  poor  things  in  hospitals — above  all  of  women  !   Oh,  when 

I I  get  well,  how  I  will  take  care  of  the  women  here  !  What 
i  women  must  suffer  even  here  in  out-of-the-way  cottages — no 
!  doctor,  no  kind  nursing,  all  blind  agony  and  struggle.  And 

women  in  London  in  dens  like  thjose  Mr.  Newcome  got  into, 
'\  degraded,  forsaken,  ill-treated,  the  thought  of  the  child  only 
I  an  extra  horror  and  burden  !   And  the  pain  all  the  time  so 

■  i  merciless,  so  cruel — no  escape  !  Oh,  to  give  all  one  is,  or  ever 
I  can  be,  to  comforting  1   And  yet  the  great  sea  of  it  one  can 

\  i  never  touch  !   It  is  a  nightmare — I  am  weak  still,  I  suppose ;  1 

\  I  don't  know  myself;  but  I  can  see  nothing  but  jarred,  tortured 
:  creatures  everywhere.   All  my  own  joys  and  comforts  seem  to 

;  lift  me  selfishly  above  the  common  lot." 


310 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


She  stopped,  her  large,  gray-blue  eyes  dim  with  tears,  tryui^^ 
once  more  for  that  habitual  self-restraint  which  physical  weak 
ness  had  shaken. 

"You  are  weak,"  he  said,  caressing  her,  and  that  destro^ 
for  a  time  the  normal  balance  of  things.  It  is  true,  darling, 
but  we  are  not  meant  to  see  it  always  so  clearly.  God  kno~ 
v/e  could  not  bear  it  if  we  did." 

"And  to  think,"  she  said,  shuddering  a  little,  "that  the 
are  men  and  women  who  in  the  face  of  it  can  still  refuse  Chrigl. 
and  the  Cross,  can  still  say  this  hfe  is  aU  I  How  can  they  live 
—how  dare  they  live  ?" 

Then  he  saw  that  not  only  man's  pain,  but  man's  defiance, 
had  been  haunting  her,  and  he  guessed  what  persons  and  mem^ 
ories  had  been  flitting  through  her  mind.  But  he  dared  no' 
talk  lest  she  should  exhaust  herself.  Presently,  eeeing  a  vol- 
ume of  Augustine's  "Confessions,"  her  favorite  book,  lying 
beside  her,  he  took  it  up,  turning  over  the  pages,  and  weaving 
passages  together  as  they  caught  his  eye. 

"Speak  to  me,  for  Thy  compassion's  sake,  O  Lord  my  God, 
and  tell  me  what  art  Thou  to  me  I  Say  unto  my  soul,  '  I  am 
thy  salvation !'  Speak  it  that  I  may  hear.  Behold  the  ears  of 
my  heart,  O  Lord ;  open  them  and  say  unto  my  soul,  ^  I  am 
thy  salvation !'  I  will  follow  after  this  voice  of  Thine,  I  will 
lay  hold  on  Thee.  The  temple  of  my  soul,  wherein  Thou 
shouldest  enter,  is  narrow,  do  Thou  enlarge  it.  It  falleth  into 
ruins— do  Thou  rebuild  it!  .  .  .  Woe  to  that  bold  soul  which: 
hopeth,  if  it  do  but  let  Thee  go,  to  find  something  better  than 
Thee !  It  turneth  hither  and  thither,  on  this  side  and  on  that, 
and  all  things  are  hard  and  bitter  unto  it.  For  Thou  only  art 
rest !  .  .  .  Whithersoever  the  soul  of  man  turneth  it  findeth 
sorrow,  except  only  in  Thee.  Fix  there,  then,  thy  resting-place, 
my  soul  !  Lay  up  in  Him  whatever  thou  hast  received  from 
Jlim.  Commend  to  the  keeping  of  the  Truth  whatever  the 
Truth  hath  given  thee,  and  thou  shalt  lose  nothing.  And  thy 
dead  things  shall  revive  and  thy  weak  things  shall  be  made 
whole  1" 

She  listened,-  appropriating  and  clinging  fco  every  word,  till 
the  nervous  clasp  of  the  long  delicate  fingers  relaxed,  her  head 
dropped  a  little,  gently,  against  the  head  of  the  child,  and  tired 
with  much  feeling  she  slept. 

Robert  slipped  away  and  strolled  out  into  the  garden  in  the 
fast-gathering  darkness.    His  mind  was  full  of  that  intense 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


spiritual  life  of  Catherine's  which  in  its  wonderful  self-con- 
tainedness  and  strength  was  always  a  marvel,  sometimes  a 
iieproach,  to  him.  Beside  her,  he  seemed  to  himself  a  light 
creature,  drawn  hither  and  thither  by'  this  interest,  and  hy 
that,  tangled  in  the  fleeting  shows  of  things— the  toy  and  play- 
thing of  circumstance.  He  thought  ruefully  and  humbly,  as 
he  wandered  on  through  the  dusk,  of  his  own  lack  of  inward- 
tiess:  Everything  divides  me  from  Thee !"  he  could  have  cried 
in  St.  Augustine's  manner.  "  Books,  and  friends,  and  work- 
all  seem  to  hide  Thee  from  me.  Why  am  I  so  passionate  for 
this  and  that,  for  all  these  sections  and  fragments  of  Thee?  Oh, 
for  the  One,  the  All  1  Fix  there  thy  resting-place,  my  soul !" 

And  presently,  after  this  cry  of  self-reproach,  he  turned  to 
muse  on  that  intuition  of  the  world's  pain  which  had  been 
troubling  Catherine,  shrinking  from  it  even  more  than  she 
had  shrimk  from  it,  in  proportion  as  his  nature  was  more  im- 
aginative than  hers.  And  Christ  the  only  clew,  the  only 
remedy— no  other  anywhere  in  this  vast  universe,  where  all 
men  are  under  sentence  of  death,  where  the  whole  creation 
groaneth  and  travaileth  in  pain  together  until  now. 

And  yet  what  countless  generations  of  men  had  borne  their 
pain,  knowing  nothing  of  the  one  Healer.  He  thought  of 
Buddhist  patience  and  Buddhist  charity ;  of  the  long  centuries 
during  which  Chaldean  or  Persian  or  Egyptian  lived,  suffered, 
and  died,  trusting  the  gods  they  knew.  And  how  many  other 
generations,  nominally  children  of  the  Great  Hope,  had  used  it 
as  the  mere  instrument  of  passion  or  of  hate,  cursing  in  the 
name  of  love,  destroying  in  the  name  of  pity.  For  how  much 
of  the  world's  pain  was  not  Christianity  itself  responsible? 
His  thoughts  recurred  with  a  kind  of' anguished  perplexity  to 
Bome  of  the  problems  stirred  in  him  of  late  by  his  historical 
reading.  The  strifes  and  feuds  and  violences  of  the  early 
church  returned  to  weigh  upon  him— the  hair-splitting  super- 
stition, the  selfish  passion  for  power.  He  recalled  Gibbon's 
lamentation  over  the  age  of  the  Antonines,  and  Mommsen's 
grave  doubt  whether,  taken  as  a  whole,  the  area  once  covered 
by  the  Roman  Empire  can  be  said  to  be  substantially  happier 
now  than  in  the  days  of  Severus. 

0  corruptio  optimi !  That  men  should  have  been  so  little 
affected  by  that  shining  ideal  of  the  new  Jerusalem,  descend- 
ed out  of  Heaven  from  God,"  into  their  very  midst— that  the 


^312  ROBERT  ELSMERE. 

print  of  the    blessed  feet"  along  the  world's  highway  shouto 
have  been  so  often  buried  in  the  sands  of  cruelty  and  fraud ! 

The  September  wind  blew  about  him  as  he  strolled  through 
the  darkening  column,  set  thick  with  great  bushes  of  sombei 
juniper  among  the  yellowing  fern,  which  stretched  away  on  thci 
left-hand  side  of  the  road  leading  to  the  Hall.  He  stood  airfil 
watched  the  masses  of  restless  discordant  cloud  which  tl^f 
sunset  had  left  behind  it,  thinking  the  while  of  Mr.  Grey,  oj  ^ 
his  assertions  and  his  denials.  Certain  phrases  of  his  which 
Eobert  had  heard  drop  from  him  on  one  or  two  rare  occasionSj 
dm-ing  the  later  stages  of  his  Oxford  life  ran  through  his  head. , 

''The  Fairy-Tale  of  Christianity,"  "The  Origins  of  Christian  1 
Mythology."  He  could  recall,  as  the  words  rose  in  his  mem- 
ory, the  simplicity  of  the  rugged  face,  and  the  melancholy 
mingled  with  fire  which  had  always  marked  the  gi*eat  tutor'g 
sayings  about  religion. 

"  Fairy  Tale!"  Could  any  reasonable  man  watch  a  life  like 
Catherine's  and  believe  that  nothing  but  a  delusion  lay  at  the! 
heart  of  it  ?  And  as  he  asked  the  question  he  seemed  to  hear 
Mr.  Grey's  answer:  "  All  religions  are  true,  and  all  are  false. 
In  them  all,  more  or  less  visibly,  man  grasps  at  the  one  thing 
needful— self -forsaken,  God  laid  hold  of.  The  spirit  in  them 
all  is  the  same,  answers  eternally  to  reality ;  it  is  but  the  letter, 
the  fashion,  the  imagery,  that  are  relative  and  changing." 

He  turned  and  walked  homeward,  struggling  with  a  host  of 
tempestuous  ideas  as  swift  and  varying  as  the  autumn  clouds 
hurrying  overhead^^  And  then,  through  a  break  in  a  line  of) 
trees,  he  caught  sight  of  the  tower  and  chancel  window  of  the 
little  church.  In  an  instant  he  had  a  vision  of  early  summer 
mornings— dewy,  perfuAed,  silent,  save  for  the  birds,  and  all' 
the  soft  stir  of  rural  birth  and  growth,  of  a  chancel  fragrant 
with  many  flowers,  of  a  distant  church  with  scattered  figures, 
of  the  kneeling  form  of  his  wife  close  beside  him,  himself  bend- 
ing over  her,  the  sacrament  of  the  Lord's  death  in  his  hand. 
The  emotion,  the  intensity,  the  absolute  self  surrender  of  in- 
numerable such  moments  in  the  past— moments  of  a  common 
faith,  a  common  self-abasement — came  flooding  back  uport 
him.  With  a  movement  of  joy  and  penitence  he  threw  himself 
at  the  feet  of  Catherine's  master  and  his  own:  Fix  there  thyi 
resting-place^  my  soulT 

.  .  i 


1 


EOBBKT  ELSM22RK. 


313 


CHAPTER  2X. 

CATHF^fiXE's  later  convalescence  dwelt  in  her  mind  in  after 

I years  af".  u  t/irne  of  p^cDliar  softness  and  peace.    Her  baby-girl 
throve  •  "Bobert  had  driven  the  squire  and  Henslowe  out  of  his 
mind,  and  was  all  eagerness  as  to  certain  negotiations  with  a 
famous  naturalist  for  a  lecture  €it  the  village  club.    At  Mile 
End,  as  though  to  put  the  rector  in  the  wrong,  serious  illness 
had  for  the  time  disappeared ;  and  Mrs.  Ley  burn's  mild  chatter, 
as  she  gently  poked  about  the  house  and  garden,  went  out  in 
Catherine's  pony-carriage,  inspected  Catherine's  stores,  and 
hovered  over  Catherine's  babe,  had  a  constantly  cheering  effect 
on  the  still  languid  mother.  Like  all  theorists,  especially  those 
at  second-hand,  Mrs.  Leyburn's  maxims  had  been  very  much 
I  routed  by  the  event.  The  babe  had  ailments  she  did  not  under- 
!  stand,  or  it  developed  likes  and  dislikes  she  had  forgotten 
'  existed  in  babies,  and  Mrs.  ,Leyburn  was  nonplused.  She  would 
j  sit  with  it  on  her  lap,  anxiously  studying  its  pecuharities. 
f  She  was  sure  it  squinted,  that  its  back  was  weaker  than  other 
\  babies,  that  it  cried  more  than  hers  had  ever  done.    She  loved 
!  to  be  plaintive;  it  would  have  seemed  to  her  unladfy-like  to  be 
I  too  cheerful,  even  over  a  first  grandchild. 

Agnes  meanwhile  made  herself  practically  useful,  as  washer 
way,  and  she  did  almost  more  than  anybody  to  beguile  Cath- 
erine's recovery  by  her  hours  of  Long  Whindale  chat.  She  had 
no  passionate  feeling  about  the  place  and  the  people  as  Cath- 
I  erine  had,  but  she  was  easily  content,  and  she  had  a  good 
I  wholesome  feminine  curiosity  as  to  the  courtings  and  weddings 
and  buryings  of  the  human  beings  about  her.    So  she  would 
I  sit  and  chat,  working  the  while  with  the  quickest,  neatest  of 
I  fingers,  till  Catherine  knew  as  much  about  Jenny  Tyson's 
I  Whinborough  lover,  and  Farmer  Tredall's  troubles  with  his 
son,  and  the  way  in  which  that  odious  woman  Molly  Eedgold 
bullied  her  httle  consumptive  husband,  as  Agnes  knew,  which 
I  was  saying  a  good  deal. 

[     About  themselves  Agnes  was  frankness  itself. 
I       Since  you  went,"  she  would  say  with  a  shrug,  ^'I  keep  the 
I  coach  steady,  perhaps,  but  Eose  drives,  and  we  shall  have  to 
go  where  she  takes  us.    By  the  way,  Cathie,  what  have  you 
been  doing  to  her  here?   She  is  not  a  bit  like  herself.    I  don't 
generally  mind  being  snubbed.   It  amuses  her  and  doesn't  hurt 


8U 


KOBEBT  ELSMERE. 


me ;  and,  of  course,  I  know  I  am  meant  to  be  her  foU.  But, 

really,  sometimes  she  is  too  bad  even  for  me." 

Catherine  sighed,  but  held  her  peace.  Like  all  strong  per- 
sons, she  kept  things  very  much  to  herself.  It  only  made 
vexations  more  real  to  talk  about  them.  But  she  and  Agnes 
discussed  the  winter  and  Berlin. 

''You  had  better  l^t  her  go,"  said  Agnes,  sigTiificantly ;  ''she 
will  go  anyhow." 

A  few  days  afterward  Catherine,  opening  the  drawing-room 
door  unexpectedly,  came  upon  Rose  sitting  idly  at  the  piano, 
her  hands  resting  on  the  keys,  and  her  great  gray  eyes  strain- 
ing out  of  her  white  face  with  an  expression  which  sent  the 
sister's  heart  into  her  shoes. 

"How  you  steal  about,  Catherine!"  cried  the  player,  getting 
up.  and  shutting  the  piano.  '' I  declare  you  are  just  like  Mil- 
lais's  Gray  Lady  in  that  ghostly  gown." 

Catherine  came  swiftly  across  the  floor.  She  had  just  left 
her  child,  and  the  sweet  dignity  of  motherhood  was  in  her  step, 
her  look.    She  came  and  threw  her  arms  round  the  girl. 

''  Rose,  dear,  I  have  settled  it  all  with  mamma.  The  money 
can  be  managed,  and  you  shall  go  to  Berlin  for  the  winter  when 
you  like." 

She  drew  herself  back  a  little,  still  with  her  arms  roimd 
Rose's  waist,  and  looked  at  her  smiling,  to  see  how  she  took  it. 

Rose  had  a  strange  movenlent  of  irritation.  She  drew  her- 
self out  of  Catherine's  grasp. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  had  settled  on  Berlin,"  she  said,  coldly. 

Very  possible  Leipsic  would  be  better." 

Catherine's  face  fell. 

''Whichever  you  hke,  dear.  I  have  been  thinking  about  it 
ever  since  that  day  you  spoke  of  it— you  remember — and  now 
I  have  talked  it  over  with  mamma.  If  she  can't  manage  all 
the  expense  we  will  help.  Oh,  Rose,"  and  she  came  nearer 
again,  timidly,  her  eyes  melting,  "I  know  we  haven't  under- 
stood each  other.  I  have  been  ignorant,  I  think,  and  narrow. 
But  I  meant  it  for  the  best,  dear — I  did — " 

Her  voice  failed  her,  but  in  her  look  there  seemed  to  be  writ- 
ten the  history  of  all  the  prayers  and  yearnings  of  her  youth 
over  the  pretty  wayward  child  who  had  been  her  joy  and  tor- 
ment. Rose  could  not  but  meet  that  look — its  nobleness,  its 
humble  surrender. 


EGBERT  ELSMEBE. 


316 


Suddenly  two  large  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  She  dashed 
them  away  impatiently. 

-  I  am  not  a  bit  well,"  she  said,  as  though  in  irritable  excuse 
both  to  herself  and  Catherine.  "I  believe  I  have  had  a  head- 
ache for  a  fortnight." 

And  then  she  put  her  arms  down  on  a  table  near  and  hid  her 
face  upon  them.  She  was  one  bundle  of  jarring  nerves — sore, 
poor  passionate  child,  that  she  was  betraying  herself;  sorer 
stni  that,  as  she  told  herself,  Catherine  was  sending  her  to 
Berlin  as  a  consolation.  When  girls  have  love-troubles  the 
first  thing  their  elders  do  is  to  look  for  a  diversion.  She  felt 
sick  and  humiliated.  Catherine  had  been  talking  her  over  with 
the  family,  she  supposed. 

Meanwhile  Catherine  stood  by  her  tenderly,  stroking  her 
hair  and  saying  soothing  things. 

^'lam  sure  you  will  be  happy  at  Berlin,  Eose.  And  you 
.  mustn't  leave  me  out  of  your  life,  dear,  though  I  am  so  stupid 
and  unmusical.  You  must  write  to  me  about  all  you  do.  We 
must  begin  a  new»time.  Oh,  I  feel  so  guilty  sometimes,"  she 
went  on,  falling  into  a  low  intensity  of  voice  that  startled  Eose, 
and  made  her  look  hurriedly  up.  I  fought  against  your 
music,  I  suppose,  because  I  thought  it  was  devouring  you — 
leaving  no  room  for — for  religion — for  God.  I  was  jealous  of  it 
for  Christ's  sake.  And  all  the  time  I  was  blundering !  Oh, 
Eose,"  and  she  sunk  on  her  knees  beside  the  chair,  resting  her 
head  against  the  girPs  shoulder,  *'papa  charged  me  to  make 
you  love  God,  and  I  torture  myself  with  thinking  that,  instead, 
it  has  been  my  doing,  my  foolish,  clumsy  doing,  that  you  have 
come  to  think  religion  dull  and  hard.  Oh,  my  darling,  if  I  could 
make  amends— if  I  could  get  you  not  to  love  your  art  less  but 
to  love  it  in  God!  Christ  is  the  first  reality;  all  things  else  are 
real  and  lovely  in  Him.  Oh,  I  have  been  frightening  you  away 
from  Him!  I  ought  to  have  drawn  you  near.  I  have  been  so 
—so  silent,  so  shut  up,  I  have  never  tried  to,  make  you  feel 
what  it  was  kept  me  at  His  feet !  Oh,  Eose,  darling,  you  think 
the  world  real,  and  pleasure  and  enjoyment  real.  But  if  I 
could  have  made  you  see  and  know  the  things  I  have  seen  up 
in  the  mountains — among  the  poor,  the  dying— you  would 
have  felt  Him  saving,  redeeming,  interceding,  as  I  did.  Oh, 
then  you  must^  you  would  have  known  that  Christ  only  is  real, 
that  our  joys  can  only  truly  exist  in  him.  I  should  have  been 
more  open— more  faithful— more  humble, " 


316 


BOBERT  ELSMERE. 


She  paused  with  a  long,  quivering  sigh.    Rose  suddenly  Iitt- 

ed  herself,  and  they  fell  into  each  other's  arms. 

Eose,  shaken  and  excited,  though,  of  course  of  that  nigh  at 
Burwood,  when  she  had  won  leave  to  go  to  Manchester.  This 
scene  was  the  sequel  to  that— the  next  stage  in  one  and  the  same 
process.  Her  feehng  was  much  the  same  as  that  of  the* 
naturalist  who  comes  close  to  any  of  the  hidden  operations  of 
life*  She  had  come  near  to  Catherine's  spirit  in  the  growing.  ^ 
Beside  that  sweet  expansion,  how  poor  and  feverish  and  earth- 
stained  the  poof  child  felt  herself ! 

But  there  were  many  currents  in  Rose — many  things  striving 
for  the  mastery.  She  kissed  Catherine  once  or  twice,  then  she 
drew  herself  back  suddenly,  looking  into  the  other's  face.  A 
great  wave  of  feehng  rushed  up  and  broke. 

''Catherine,  could  you  ever  have  married  a  man  that  did 
not  believe  in  Christ  ?" 

She  flung  the  question  out— a  kind  of  morbid  curiosity,  a 
wild  wish  to  find  an  outlet  of  some  sort  for  things  pent  up  in 
her,  driving  her  on. 

Catherine  staried.    But  she  met  Rose's  half -frowning  eyes 
steadily. 

''Never,  Rose!  To  me  it  would  not  be  marriage."  | 
The  child's  face  lost  its  softness.    She  drew  one  hand  away.  ' 
"What  have  we  to  do  with  it  f  she  cried.    "Each  one  for 
himself." 

"But  marriage  makes  two  one,"  said  Catherine,  pale,  but 
with  a  firm  clearness.  "And  if  husband  and  wife  are  only 
one  in  body  and  estate,  not  one  in  soul,  why,  who  that  believes 
in  the  soul  would  accept  such  a  bond,  endure  such  a  miserable 
second  best  ?"  ^  , 

She  rose.  But  though  her  voice  had  recovered  all  its  energy, 
her  attitude,  her  look  was  still  tenderness,  still  yearning  itself. 

"  Rehgiondoes  not  fill  uj)  the  soul,"  said  Rose,  slowly.  Then 
she  added,  carelessly,  a  passionate  red  flying  into  her  cheek 
against  her  will :  ' '  However,  I  can  not  imagine  any  question 
that  interests  me  personally  less.  I  was  curious  what  you 
would  say." 

And  she  too  got  up,  drawing  her  hand  lightly  along  the  key- 
board of  the  piano.    Her  pose  had  a  kind  of  defiance  in  it:  her 
knit  brows  forbade  Catherine  to  ask  questions.  Catherine  str)od  \ 
irresolute.    Should  she  throw  herself  on  her  sister,  imploring  \ 
her  to  gpeak,  opening  her  own  heart  on  the  subject  of  this  ; 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


317 


mid,  unhappy  fancy  for  a  man  who  would  never  think  again 
of  the  child  he  had  played  with? 

But  the  north-country  dread  of  words,  of  speech  that  only 
defines  and  magnifies,  prevailed.  Let  there  be  no  words,  but 
let  her  love  and  watch. 

So,  after  a  moment's  pause,  she  began  in  a  different  tone 
upon  the  inquiries  she  had  been  making,  the  arrangements  that 
would  be  wanted  for  this  musical  winter.  Eose  was  almost 
listless  at  first.  A  stranger  would  ha%'e  thought  she  was  being 
-^jpersuaded  into  something  against  her  will.  Bat  she  could  not 
keep  it  up.  The  natural  instinct  reasserted  itself,  and  she  was 
soon  planning  and  deciding  as  sharply,  and  with  as  much 
young  omniscience  as  usual. 

By  the  evening  it  was  settled.  Mrs.  Leyburn,  much  bewil- 
dered, asked  Catherine,  doubtfully,  the  last  thing  at  night, 
whether  she  wanted  Eose  to  be  a  professional.  Catherine  ex- 
claimed. 

''But,  my  dear,"  said  the  widow,  staring  pensively  into  her 
bedroom  fire,  ''what's  she  to  do  with  all  this  music?"  Then 
after  a  second  she  added,  half  severely:  "I  don't  believe  her 
father  would  have  liked  it;  1  don't,  indeed,  Catherine!" 

Poor  Catherine  smiled  and  sighed  in  the  background,  but 
made  no  reply. 

"However,  she  never  looks  so  pretty  as  when  she's  playing 
the  violin— never!"  said  Mrs.  Leyburn  presently  in  the  dis- 
tance, with  a  long  breath  of  satisfaction.  ''She  got  such  a 
lovely  hand  and  arm,  Catherine!  They're  prettier  than  mine, 
and  even  your  father  used  to  notice  mine." 

''Even,'''  The  word  had  a  little  sound  of  bitterness.  In 
'spite  of  ail  his  love,  had  the  gentle,  puzzle-headed  woman 
found  her  unearthly  husband  often  very  hard  to  live  with? 

Eose  meanwhile  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  with  her  hands  round 
her  knees,  dreaming.  So  she  had  got  her  heart's  desire !  There 
did  not  seem  to  be  much  joy, in  the  getting,  but  that  was  the 
way  of  things,  one  was  told.  She  knew  she  should  bate  the 
Germans— great,  bouncing,  overfed,  sentimental  creatures ! 

Then  her  thoughts  ran  into  the  future.  After  six  months- 
yes,  by  April— she  would  be  home,  and  Agnes  and  her  tiicther 
could  meet  her  in  London. 

London.  Ah,  it  was  London  she  was  thinking  of  all  the 
time,  not  Berlin !   She  could  not  stay  in  the  present ;  or,  rather. 


318 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


the  Rose  of  the  present  went  straining  to  the  Rose  of  the  ful 
ure,  asking  to  be  righted,  to  be  avenged. 

will  learn— I  will  learn -I  will  learn  fast— many  thing 
besides  musici"  she  said  to  herself,  feverishly.  '*By  April 
shall  be  much  cleverer.  Oh,  then  I  won't  be  a  fool  so  easily 
We  shaU  be  sure  to  meet,  of  course.  But  he  shall  find  out  tha 
it  wa«  only  a  child,  only  a  silly,  soft-hearted  baby  he  playec 
with  down  here.  I  sha'n't  care  for  him  in  the  least,  of  cours< 
not,  not  after  six  months.  I  don't  mean  to.  And  I  will  make 
him  know  it— oh,  I  will,  though  he  is  so  wise,  and  so  mud 
older,  and  mounts  on  such  stilts  when  he  pleases  I" 

So  once  more  Rose  flung  her  defiance  at  fate.  But  when 
Catherine  came  along  the  passage  an  hour  later  she  heard  low 
sounds  from  Rose's  room,  which  ceased  abruptly  as  her  step 
drew  near.  •  The  elder  sister  paused ;  her  eyes  filled  with  tears; 
her  hand  closed  indignantly.  Then  she  came  closer,  all  but  went 
in,  thought  better  of  it,  and  moved  away.  If  there  is  any  truth 
in  brain-waves,  Langham  should  have  slept  restlessly  that 
night. 

Ten  days  later  an  escort  had  been  found,  all  preparations 
had  been  made,  and  Rose  was  gone. 

Mrs.  Leyburn  and  Agnes  lingered  awhile,  and  then  they  too 
departed  under  an  engagement  to  come  back  after  Christmas 
for  a  long  stay,  that  Mrs.  Leyburn  might  cheat  the  northern 
spring  a  little. 

So  husband  and  wife  were  alone  again.  How  they  rehshed 
their  solitude !  Catherine  took  up  many  threads  of  work  which 
her  months  of  comparative  weakness  had  forced  her  to  let  drop. 
She  taught  vigorously  in  the  school ;  in  the  afternoons,  so  far  ns 
her  child  would  let  her,  she  carried  her  tender  presence  and  her 
practical  knowledge  of  nursing  to  the  sick  and  feeble;  and  on 
two  evenings  in  the  week  she  and  Robert  threw  open  a  little 
room  there  was  on  the  ground-floor  between  the  study  and  the 
dining-roorn  to  the  women  and  girls  of  the  village,  as  a  sort  of 
drawing-room.  Hard-worked  mothers  would  come,  who  had 
put  their  fretful  babes  to  sleep,  and  given  their  lords  to  eat,  and 
had  just  energy  left,  whfle  the  eldest  daughter  watched,  and 
the  men  were  at  the  club  or  the  Blue  Boar,  to  put  on  a  clean 
apron  and  climb  the  short  hill  to  the  rectory.  Once  there,  there 
was  nothing  to  think  of  for  an  hour  but  the  bright  room,  Cath- 
erine's kind  face,  the  rector's  jokes,  and  the  illustrated  papers 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


319 


jr  the  photographs  that  were  spread  out  for  them  to  look  at  if 
they  would.  The  girls  learned  to  come,  because  Catherine 
could  teach  them  a  simple  dress-making,  and  was  clever  in 
catching  stray  persons  to  set  them  singing;  and  because  Mr. 
Elsmere  read  exciting  stories,  and  because  nothing  any  one  of 
them  ever  told  Mrs.  Elsmere  was  forgotten  by  her,  or  failed  to 
interest  her.  Any  of  her  social  equals  of  the  neighborhood 
would  have  hardly  recognized  the  reserved  and  stately  Cath- 
erine on  these  occasions.  Here  she  felt  herself  at  home,  at 
ease.  She  would  never,  indeed,  have  Robert's  pliancy,  his 
quick  divination,  and  for  some  time  after  her  transplanting  the 
north-country  woman  had  found  it  very  difficult  to  suit  herself 
to  a  new  shade  of  local  character.  But  she  was  learning  from 
Robert  every  day;  she  watched  him  among  the  poor,  recog- 
nizing all  his  gifts  with  an  humble  intensity  of  admiring  love, 
which  said  little  but  treasured  ev^ything,  and  for  herself  her 
inward  happiness  and  peace  shone  through  her  quiet  ways, 
making  her  the  mother  and  friend  of  all  about  her. 

As  for  Robert,  he,  of  course,  was  living  at  high  pressure  all 
round.  Outside  his  sermons  and  his  school,  his  Natural  History 
Club  had  perhaps  most  of  his  heart,  and  the  passion  for  science, 
little  continuous  work  as  he  was  able  to  give  it,  grew  on  him 
more  and  more.  He  kept  up  as  best  he  could,  working  with  one 
hand,  so  to  speak,  when  he  could  not  spare  two,  and  in  his  lon<g 
rambles  over  moor  and  hill,  gathering  in  with  his  quick  eye  a 
harvest  of  local  fact  wherewith  to  feed  their  knowledge  and  his 
own. 

The  mornings  he  always  spent  at  work  among  his  books,  the 
afternoons  in  endless  tramps  over  the  parish,  sometimes  alone, 
sometimes  with  Catherine;  and  in  the  evenings,  if  Catherine 
was  at  home,"  twice  a  week  to  womankind,  he  had  his  nights 
when  his  study  became  the  haunt  and  prey  of  half  the  boys  in 
the  place,  who  were  free  of  everything,  as  soon  as  he  had  taught 
them  to  respect  his  books,  and  not  to  taste  his  medicines;  other 
nights  when  he  was  lecturing  or  story-telling  in  the  club  or  in 
some  outlying  hamlet;  or  others  again,  when  with  Catherine 
beside  him  he  would  sit  trying  to  think  some  of  that  religious 
j  passion  which  burned  in  both  their  hearts  into  clear  words  or 
j  striking  illustrations  for  his  sermons. 

Then  his  choir  was  much  upon  his  mind.  He  knew  nothing 
about  music,  nor  did  Catherine;  their  efforts  made  Rose  laugh 
irreverently  when  she  got  their  letters  at  Berlin.   But  Robert 


320 


KOBEKT  ELSMERE. 


believed  in  a  choir  cliiefly  as  an  excellent  social  and  centi-aliz- 
ing  instmment.  There  had  been  none  in  Mr.  Preston's  day. 
He  was  determined  to  have  one,  and  a  good  one,  and  by  sheer 
energy  he  succeeded,  delighting  in  his  boyish  way  over  the  op- 
position some  of  his  novelties  excited  among  the  older  and  more 
stiff -backed  inhabitants. 

'^Let  them  talk,"  he  would  say  brightly  to  Catherine. 
They  will  come  round ;  and  talk  is  good.   Anything  to  make 
them  think,  to  stir  the  poql 

Of  course  that  old  problem  of  the  agricultural  laborer  weighed 
upon  him— his  grievances,  his  wants.    He  went  about  ponder- 
ing the  English  land  system,  more  than  haK  inclined  one  day 
to  sink  part  of  his  capital  jn  a  peasant-proprietor  experiment, 
and  ingulfed  the  next  in  ail  the  moral  and  economical  objec- 
tion, to  the  French  system.  JLand  for  allotments,  at  any  rate, 
he  had  set  his  heart  on.    But  in  this  direction,  as  in  many 
others,  the  way  was  barred.    All  the  land  in  the  parish  was  the 
squire's,  apd  not  one  inch  of  the  squire's  land  would  Henslowe 
let  young  Elsmere  have  anything  to  do  with  if  he  knew  it.  He 
would  neither  repair  nor  enlarge  the  Workmen's  Institute ;  and 
he  had  a  way  of  forgetting  the  squire's  customary  subscriptions 
to  parochial  objects,  always  paid  through  him,  which  gave  him 
much  food  for  chuckling  whenever  he  passed  Elsmere  in  the 
country  lanes.    The  man's  coarse  insolence  and  mean  hatred 
made  themselves  felt  at  every  turn,  besmirching  and  imbitter- 
ing. 

StiU  it  was  very  true  that  neither  Henslowe  nor  the  squire 
could  do  Robert  much  harm.  His  hold  on  the  parish  was  visi- 
bly strengthening ;  his  sermons  were  not  only  filling  the  church 
with  his  own  parishioners,  but  attracting  hearers  from  the  dis 
tricts  round  MureweU,  so  that  even  on  these  winter  Sundays 
there  was  almost  always  a  sprinkling  of  strange  faces  among 
the  congregation ;  and  his  position  in  the  county  and  diocese 
was  becoming  every  month  more  honorable  and  important 
The  gentry  about  showed  them  much  kindness,  and  would  have 
shown  them  much  hospitahty  if  they  had  been  allowed.  But 
though  Robert  had  nothing  of  the  ascetic  about  him,  and  liked 
the  society  of  his  equals  as  much  as  most  good-tempered  and 
vivacious  people  do,  he  and  Catherine  decided  that  for  the  pres- 
ent they  had  no  time  to  spare  for  visits  and  county  society. 
Still,  of  course,  there  were  many  occasions  on  which  the  rou- 
tine of  their  life  brought  them  across  their  neighbors,  and  il 


EOEEET  E1.SMEEE.  321 

began  to  be  pretty  widely  recognized  that  Eismere  was  a  young 
fellow  of  unusual  promise  and  intelligence,  that  his  wife  too 
was  remarkable,  and  that  between  them  they  were  IHiely  to 
raise  the  standard  of  clerical  effort  considerably  in  their  part 
of  Surrey. 

All  the  factors  of  this  life-his  work,  his  influence,  his  recov- 
ered health,  the  lavish  beauty  of  the  country— Eismere  enjoved 
with  all  his  heart.  But  at  the  root  of  aU  there  lay  what  gWe 
value  and  savor  to  everything  else-that  exquisite  home-life  of 
theirs,  that  tender,  triple  bond  of  husband,  wife,  and  child. 

Cathenne,  coming  home  tired  from  teaching  or  visiting 
would  find  her  step  quickening  as  she  reached  the  gate  of  the 
rectory,  and  the  sense  of  delicious  possession  waking  up  in  h^- 
-  which  is  one  of  the  "first  fruits  of  motherhood.   There  at  the 
window,  between  the  lamp-Ught  behind  and  the  winter  dusk 
outside,  would  be  the  child  in  its  nurse's  arms,  little  wondering 
motiveless  smUes  passing  over  the  tiny  puckered  face  that  was 
so  oddly  like  Robert  already.   And  afterward,  in  the  fire  light- 
ed nursery,  with  the  bath  in  front  of  the  high  fender,  and  all 
the  necessaries  of  baby  life  beside  it,  she  would  go  through 
those  functions  which  mothers  love  and  linger  over,  let  the 
kickmg,  dimpled  creature  principally  concerned  protest  as  it 
may  against  the  over-refinements  of  civilization.    Then  when 
the  Uttle  restless  voice  was  stUled,  and  the  cradle  left  sHent  in 
the  darkened  room,  there  would  come  the  short  watching  for 
Robert,  his  voice,  his  kiss,  their  simple  meal  together,  a  mo- 
ment of  rest,  of  laughter  and  chat,  before  some  fresh  effort 
claimed  them.    Every  now  and  then- white-letter  days-there 
would  drop  on  them  a  long  evening  together.   Then  out  would 
come  one  of  the  few  books-Dante  or  Virgil  or  Milton-which 
had  entered  into  the  fiber  of  Catherine's  strong  nature  The 
-two  heads  would  draw  close  over  them,  or  Robert  would  take 
some  thought  of  hers  as  a  text,  and  spout  away  from  the  hearth- 
rug, watching  aU  the  while  for  her  smile,  her  look  of  assent 
Sometimes,  late  at  night,  when  there  was  a  sermon  on  his 
mmd,  he  would  dive  into  his  pocket  for  his  Greek  Testament 
and  make  her  read,  partly  for  the  sake  of  teaching  her— for 
she^knew  some  Greek  and  longed  to  know  more-but  mostly 
that  he  might  get  from  her  some  of  that  garnered  wealth  of 
spiritual  experience  which  he  adored  in  her.   They  would  go 
troni  verse  to  verse,  from  thought  to  thought,  till  suddenly 
perhaps  the  tide  of  feeling  would  rise,  and  while  the  wind 


g22  EGBERT  BL8MBEB. 

swept  round  the  house,  and  the  owls  hooted  in  the  elms  they 
would  sit  hand  in  hand,  lost  in  love  and  faith-Christ  near 
them— Eternity,  warm  with  God,  inwrappmg  them. 

So  much  for  the  man  of  action,  the  husband,  the  pManthro- 
pist.  In  reality,  great  as  was  the  moral  energy  of  th^  pen^ 
of  Elsmere's  life,  the  dominant  distmgmshmg  note  of  it  was 
not  moral  hut  intellectual. 

In  matters  of  conduct  he  was  but  developmg  habits  and  ten- 
dencies already  strongly  present  in  him  ;  in 
in-  with  every  month  of  this  winter  he  was  becommg  con- 
scious of  fresh  forces,  fresh  hunger,  fresh  horizons^ 

"  One  half  of  your  day  be  Icivg  of  your  world  Mr.  Grey 
had  said  to  him:  ^'the  otlwr  half  be  tU  slave  of  some  thin& 
which  will  take  you  out  of  your  world  into  the  general  hfe,^ 
the  Ufe  of  thought,  of  man  as  a  whole,  of  the  universe 

The  counsel,  as  we  have  seen,  had  struck  root  and  flowered 
into  action.  So  many  men  of  Elsmere's  type  fj^e  [^^^ 
up  once  and  for  all  as  they  became  mature  to  the  hfe  of  doing 
and  feeling,  practically  excluding  the  life  of  thought.  It  wa 
Henry  Grey's  influence,  in  all  probability,  perhaps,  too,  tht 
tmSig  of  In  eaxUer  Langham,  that  saved  for  Elsmere  the  h& 

°^The  form  taken  by  this  training  of  his  own  mind  be  hadb^r 
thus  encouraged  not  to  abandon,  was,  as  we  ^^now  the  ^udj 
of  history.   He  had  well  mapped  out  before  him  that  book  oi 
the  origins  of  France  which  he  had  described  to  Langham,  1 
was  to  take  him  years,  of  course,        meanwhile,  m  his  firs 
enthusiasm,  he  was  like  a  child,  revehng  m  the  treasure  o 
work  that  lay  before  him.  As  he  had  told  Langham  he  had  jus 
got  below  the  surface  of  a  great  subject  and  was  beginning  fr 
dig  into  the  roots  of  it.   Hitherto  he  had  been  under  the  guid 
ance  of  men  of  his  own  day,  of  the  nineteenth  century  histoi 
ian  who  refashions  the  past  on  the  Unes  of  his  own  mmd,  wh 
gives  it  rationality,  coherence,  and,  as  it  were,  modernness  8 
that  the  main  impression  he  produces  on  us,  so  long  as  we  loo ; ; 
at  that  past  through  him  only,  is  on  the  whole  an  impressio  ■ 
of  continuity,  of  resemblance.  .     ,  «.     „  i 

Whereas,  on  the  Contrary,  the  first  impression  left  on  a  ma 
bv  the  attempt  to  plunge  into  the  materials  of  history  for  hip 
self  is  almost  always  an  extraordinarily  sharp  impression 
difference,  or  contrast.    Ultimatelv.  of  course,  he  sees  m 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


323 


these  men  and  women  whose  letters  and  biographies,  whose 
creeds  and  general  conceptions  he  is  investigating,  are  in  truth 
!  his  ancestors,  bone  of  his  bone,  flesh  of  his  flesh.    But  at  first 
the  student  who  goes  back,  say,  in  the  history  of  Europe,  be- 
hind the  Eenaissance  or  behind  the  Crusades  into  the  actual 
deposits  of  the  past,  is  often  struck  with  a  kind  of  vertige.  The 
I  men  and  women  whom  he  has  dragged  forth  into  the  hght  of 
; .  his  own  mind  are  to  him  like  some  strange  puppet-show.  They 
I  are  called  by  names  he  knows— kings,  bishops,  judges,  poets, 
I  priests,  men  of  letters— but  what  a  gulf  between  him  and  them ! 
I  What  motives,  what  behefs,  what  embryonic  processes  of 
thought  and  morals,  what  bizarre  combinations  of  ignorance 
i  and  knowledge,  of  the  highest  sanctity  with  the  lowest  cred- 
I  uhty  or  falsehood;  what  extraordinary  prepossessions,  bom 
with  a  man  and  tainting  his  whole  ways  of  seeing  and  think- 
ing from  childhood  to  the  grave!   Amid  all  the  intellectual 
dislocation  of  the  spectacle,  indeed,  he  perceives  certain  Greeks 
^d  certain  Latins  who  represent  a  forward  strain,  who  belong 
as  it  seems  to  a  world  of  their  own,  a  world  ahead  of  them. 
To  them  he  stretches  out  his  hand:     You,''  he  says  to  them, 
though  your  priests  spoke  to  you  not  of  Christ,  but  of  Zeus 
and  Artemis,  you  are  really  my  kindred !"   But  intellectually 
they  stand  alone.   Around  them,  after  them,  for  long  ages  the 
world  "spake  as  a  child,  felt  as  a  child,  understood  as  a  child." 
^  Then  he  sees  what  it  is  makes  the  difference,  digs  the  gulf. 
^'Science,'"  the  mind  cries,  ''ordered  Jcnowledge.'"  And  so  for 
the  first  time  the  modern  recognizes  what  the  accumulations  of 
his  forefathers  have  done  for  him.   He  takes  the  torch  which 
man  has  been  so  long  and  patiently  fashioning  to  his  hand,  and 
turns  it  on  the  past,  and  at  every  step  the  sight  grows  stranger, 
and  yet  more  moving,  more  pathetic.    The  darkness  into  which 
be  penetrates  does  but  make  him  grasp  his  own  guiding  light 
the  more  closely.    And  yet,  bit  by  bit,  it  has  been  prepared  for 
Mm  by  these  groping,  half-conscious  generations,  and  the  scru- 
tiny which  began  in  repulsion  and  laughter  ends  in  a  marvel- 
ing gratitude. 

But  the  repulsion  and  th^  laughter  come  first,  and  during 
this  winter  of  work  Elsmere  felt  them  both  very  strongly. 
He  would  sit  in  the  morning  buried  among  the  records  of  de- 
caying Rome  and  emerging  France,  surrounded  by  Chronicles, 
by  Church  Councils,  by  hves  of  the  saints,  by  primitive  sys- 
tems of  law,„pushing  his  imaginative,  impetuous  way  through 


324 


ROBERT  BLSMERK. 


them.   Sometimes  Catherine  would  be  there,  and  he  woul 
pour  out  on  her  something  of  what  was  in  his  own  mind. 

One  day  he  was  deep  in  the  Ufe  of  a  certain  saint.  The  saint 
had  been  bishop  of  a  diocese  in  Southern  France.  His  biog- 
rapher  was  his  successor  in  the  see,  a  man  of  high  poUtic 
importance  in  the  Burgundian  state,  renowned  besides  fo 
sanctity  and  learning.  Only  some  twenty  years  separated  th 
biography,  at  the  latest,  from  the  death  of  its  subject.  It  co" 
tained  some  curious  material  for  social  history,  and  Robert  w 
reading  it  with  avidity.  But  it  was,  of  course,  a  tissue  of  mar 
vels.  The  young  bishop  had  practiced  every  virtue  known  t, 
the  time,  and  wrought  every  conceivable  miracle,  and  th 
miracles  were  better  told  than  usual,  with  more  ingenuity 
more  imagination.  Perhaps  on  that  account  they  struck  th 
reader's  sense  more  sharply. 

And  the  saint  said  to  the  sorcerers  and  to  the  practicers  o 
unholy  arts,  that  they  should  do  those  evil  things  no  more,  fo 
he  had  bound  the  spirits  of  whom  they  were  wont  to  inquire 
and  they  would  get  no  further  answers  to  their  incantation 
Then  those  stiff-necked  sons  of  the  devil  fell  upon  the  man  o 
God,  scourged  him  sore,  and  threatened  liim  with  death,  if  h 
would  not  instantly  loose  those  spirits  he  had  bound.   And  se: 
ing  he  could  prevail  nothing,  and  being,  moreover,  admonish 
by  God  so  to  do,  he  permitted  them  work  their  own  dam" 
tion.   For  he  called  for  a  parchment  and  wrote  upon  it:  'AtTi 
brose  unto  Satan— Enter  P  Then  was  the  spell  loosed,  the  spirit 
returned,  the  sorcerers  inquired  as  they  were  accustomed,  an 
received  answers.   But  in  a  short  space  of  time  every  one 
them  perished  miserably  and  was  deUvered  unto  his  natu 
lord  Satanas,  whereunto  he  belonged." 

Robert  made  a  hasty  exclamation,  and  turned  to  Catherin 
who  was  working  beside  him,  read  the  passage  to  her,  with 
few  words  as  to  the  book  and  its  author. 
Catherine's  work  dropped  a  moment  on  to  her  knee. 
What  extraordinary  superstition!"  she  said,  startled.  " 
bishop,  Robert,  and  an  educated  man  ?" 
Robert  nodded. 
But  it  is  the  whole  habit  of  mind,"  he  said  half  to  h" 
staring  into  the  fire,    that  is  so  astounding.   No  one  esca 
it.   The  whole  age  reaJJy  is  non-sane." 

suppose  the  devout  Cathohc  would  believe  that?" 
"  I  am  not  sure,"  said  Robert,  dreamily,  aad  remained  s 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


825 


rin  thought  for  long  after,  while  Catherine  work^,  and  pon- 
t  dared  a  Christmas  entertainment  for  her  girls. 

1    Perhaps  it  was  his  scientific  work,  fragmentary  as  it  was, 

ilthat  was  really  quickening  and  sharpening  these  histoncal  im^ 
pressions  of  his.  Evolution— once  a  mere  germ  in  the  mind- 
was  beginning  to  press,  to  encroach,  to  intermeddle  with  the 

I  mind's  other  furniture. 

And  the  comparative  instinct— that  tool,  par  excellence^  of 

1  modem  science — was  at  last  fully  awake,  was  growing  fast, 
taking  hold,  now  here,  now  there. 

It  is  tolerably  clear  to  me,"  he  said  to  himself  suddenly  om 
winter  afternoon,  as  he  was  trudging  home  alone  from  Mile 
End,  that  some  day  or  other  I  must  set  to  work  to  bring  a 
little  order  into  one's  notions  of  the  Old  Testament.  At  pres' 
ent  they  are  just  a  chaos !" 
He  walked  on  awhile,  struggling  with  the  rainstorm  which  had 

I  overtaken  him,  till  again  the  mind's  quick  life  took  voice. 

'*But  what  matter?    God  is  the  beginning— God  in  the 
prophets— in  Israel's  best  life — God  is  Christ !   How  are  any 
theories  about  the  Pentateuch  to  touch  that  ?" 
And  into  the  clear  eyes,  the  young  face  aglow  with  wind  and 

I  rain,  there  leaped  a  light,  a  softness  indescribable. 

i  But  the  vivider  and  the  keener  grew  this  new  mental  life  of 
Elsmere's,  the  more  constant  became  his  sense  of  soreness  as  to 

I  that  foolish  and  motiveless  quarrel  which  divided  him  from  the 
squire.   Naturally  he  was  forever  being  harassed  and  pulled  up 

i  in  his  work  by  the  mere  loss  of  the  Murewell  libraiy.   To  have 

i  such  a  collection  so  close,  and  to  be  cut  off  from  it,  was  a  state 
of  things  no  student  could  help  feeling  severely.  But  it  was 
much  more  than  that:  it  was  the  man  he  hankered  after;  the 
man  who  was  a  master  where  he  was  a  beginner;  the  man  who 
had  given  his  life  to  learning,  and  was  carrying  all  his  vast 
accumulations  somberly  to  the  grave,  unused,  untransmitted. 

"  He  might  have  given  me  his  knowledge,"  thought  Elsmere, 
sadly,  and  I— I— would  have  been  a  son  to  him.  Why  is  life 
so  perverse  ?" 

Meanwhile  he  was  much  cut  off  from  the  great  house  and  its 
I  master  as  though  both  had  been  surrounded  by  the  thorn  hedge 
of  fairy  tale.   The  Hall  had  its  visitors  during  these  winter 
months,  but  the  Elsmeres  saw  nothing  of  them.  Robert 
gulped  down  a  natural  sigh  when  one  Saturday  evening,  as  ht 


326 


ROBEBT  ELSMEBE. 


passed  the  Hall  gates,  he  saw  driving  through  them-the  chief 
of  English  science  side  by  side  with  the  most  accomplished  of 
English  critics. 

''^  There  are  good  times  in  the  world  and  I  ain't  in  'em f  "  he 
said  to  himself,  with  a  laugh  and  a  shrug  as  he  turned  up  the 
lane  to  the  rectory,  and  then,  boy-hke,  was  ashamed  of  himself, 
and  greeted  Catherine  with  all  the  tenderer  greeting. 

Only  on  two  occasions  during  three  months  could  he  be  sure 
of  having  seen  the  squire.  Both  were  in  the  twilight,  when,  as 
the  neighborhood  declared,  Mr.  Wendover  always  walked,  and 
both  made  a  sharp  impression  on  the  rector's  nerves.  In  the 
heart  of  one  of  the  loneliest  commons  of  the  parish  Robert, 
swinging  along  one  November  evening  through  the  scattered 
furze  bushes,  growing  ghostly  in  the  darkness,  was  suddenly 
conscious  of  a  cloaked  figure  with  slouching  shoulders  and  head 
bent  forward  coming  toward  him.  It  passed  without  recogni- 
tion of  any  kind,  and  for  an  instant  Robert  caught  the  long, 
sharpened  features  and  haughty  eyes  of  the  squire. 

At  another  tim"^  Robert  was  walking,  far  from  home,  along 
a  bit  of  level  road.   The  pools  in  the  ruts  were  just  filmed  with 
frost,  and  gleamed  under  the  sunset ;  the  winter  dusk  was  clear 
and  chill..    A  horseman  turned  into  the  road  from  a  side  lane. 
It  was  the  squire  again,  alone.    The  sharp  sound  of  the  ap- 
proaching hoofs  stirred  Robert's  pulse,  and  as  they  passed  each 
other  the  rector  raised  his  hat.    He  thought  his  greeting  was 
acknowledged,  but  could  not  be  quite  sure.    From  the  shelter 
of  a  group  of  trees  he  stood  a  moment  and  looked  after  the  re- 
treating figure.    It  and  the  horse  showed  dark  against  a  wide 
sky  barred  by  stormy  reds  and  purples.    The  wind  whistled 
through  the  withered  oaks;  the  long  road  with  its  lines  of  ghm- 
mering  pools  leeemed  to  stretch  endlessly  into  the  sunset;  and 
with  every  minute  the  night  strode  on.    Age  and  loneliness 
could  have  found  no  fitter  setting.    A  shiver  ran  through  Els- 
mere  as  he  stepped  forward. 
Undoubtedly  the  quarrel,  helped  by  his  work,  and  the  per- 
^  petual  presence  of  that  beautiful  house  commanding  the  whole 
country  round  it  from  its  plateau  above  the  river,  kept  Elsmere 
specially  in  mind  of  the  squire.    As  before  their  first  meeting, 
and  in  spite  of  it,  he  "became  more  and  more  imaginatively  pre- 
occupied with  him.    One  of  the  signs  of  it  was  a  strong  desire 
to  read  the  squire's  two  famous  books:  one,  ^'The  Idols  of  the 
Market-place,"  an  attack  on  EngHsh  beliefs;  the  other,  '^Es- 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


32? 


says  on  English  Culture,"  an  attack  on  English  ideals  ot  edu- 
cation. He  had  never  come  across  them  as  it  happened,  and 
perhaps  Newcome's  denunciation  had  some  effect  in  inducing 
him  for  a  time  to  refrain  from  reading  them.  But  in  December 
he  ordered  them  and  waited  their  coming  with  impatience. 
He  said  nothing  of  the  order  to  Catherine ;  somehow  there  were 
by  now  two  or  three  portions  of  his  work,  two  or  three  branches 
of  his  thought,  which  had  fallen  out  of  their  common  discussion. 
After  all  she  was  not  literary,  and  with  all  their  oneness  of 
soul  there  could  not  be  an  identity  of  interests  or  pursuits. 

The  books  arrived  in  the  morning.  (Oh,  how  dismally  well, 
with  what  a  tightening  of  the  heart,  did  Eobert  always  remem- 
ber that  day  in  after  years  !)  He  was  much  too  busy  to  look  at 
them,  and  went  off  to  a  meeting.  In  the  evening,  coming  home 
late  from  his  night-school,  he  found  Catherine  tired,  sent  her 
to  bed,  and  went  himself  into  his  study  to  put  together  some 
notes  for  a  cottage  lecture  he  was  to  give  the  following  day. 
The  packet  of  books,  unopened,  lay  on  his  writing-table.  He 
took  off  the  wrapper,  and  in  his  eager  way  fell  to  reading  the 
first  he  touched. 
It  was  the  first  volume  of  The  Idols  of  the  Market-place."" 
Ten  or  twelve  years  before,  Mr.  Wendover  had  launched  this 
book  into  a  startled  and  protesting  England.  It  had  been  the 
fruit  of  his  first  renewal  of  contact  with  English  life  and  En- 
glish ideas  after  his  return  from  Berhn.  Fresh  from  the  spec- 
ulative ferment  of  Germany  and  tfiie  far  profaner  skepticism 
of  France,  he  had  returned  to  a  society  where  the  first  chapter 
of  Genesis  and  the  theory  of  verbal  inspiration  were  still 
regarded  as  valid  and  important  counters  on  the  board  of 
thought.  The  result  had  been  this  book.  In  it  each  strong- 
hold of  EngHsh  popular  religion  had  been  assailed  in  turn,  at  a 
time  when  English  orthodoxy  was  a  far  more  formidable  thing 
than  it  is  now. 

The  Pentateuch,  the  Prophets,  the  Gospels,  St.  Paul,  Tradi- 
tion, the  Fathers,  Protestantism  and  Justification  by  Faith, 
the  Eighteenth  Century,  the  Broad  Church  Movement,  AngH- 
can  Theology— the  squire  had  his  say  about  them  aU.  And 
while  the  coolness  and  frankness  of  the  method  sent  a  shock 
of  indignation  and  horror  through  the  religious  public,  the 
subtle  and  caustic  style,  and  the  epigrams  with  which  the 
book  was  strewn,  forced  both  the  religious  and  irrehgious 
public  to  read,  whether  they  would  or  no.    A  storm  of  con- 


328 


BOBEBT  ELSMEBE. 


troversy  rose  round  the  volumes,  and  some  of  the  keenest  ob- 
servers of  English  life  had  said  at  the  time,  and  maintained 
since,  that  the  publication  of  the  book  had  made  or  marked  an 
epoch. 

Robert  had  lighted  on  those  pages  in  the  Essay  on  the  Gos- 
pels where  the  squire  fell  to  analyzing  the  evidence  for  the  \ 
Resurrection,  following  up  his  analysis  by  an  attempt  at  recon- 
^ti  ucting  the  conditions  out  of  which  the  belief  in  * '  the  legend  " 
arose.  Robert  began  to  read  vaguely  at  first,  then  to  hurry  on* 
through  page  after  page,  still  standing,  seized  at  once  by  the 
bizarre  power  of  the  style,  the  audacity  and  range  of  the  treat- 
ment. 

Not  a  soTind  in  the  house.  Outside,  the  tossing,  moaning 
December  night;  inside,  the  faintly  cracking  fire,  the  standing 
figure.  Suddenly  it  was  to  Robert  as  though  a  cruel,  torturing 
hand  were  laid  upon  his  inmost  being.  His  breath  failed  him ; 
the  book  slipped  out  of  his  grasp;  he  sunk  down  upon  his 
chair,  his  head  in  his  hands.  Oh,  what  a  desolate,  intolerable 
moment !  Over  the  young  idealist  soul  there  swept  a  dry, 
destroying  whirlwind  of  thought.  Elements  gathered  from 
all  sources— from  his  own  historical  work,  from  the  squire's 
book,  from  the  secret  half-conscious  recesses  of  the  mind — 
entered  into  it,  and  as  it  passed  it  seemed  to  scorch  the  heart. 

He  stayed  bowed  there  awhile,  then  he  roused  himself  with 
a  half  groan,  and  hastily  extinguishing  his  lamp  he  groped  his 
way  upstairs  to  his  wif e*s  room.  Catherine  lay  asleep.  The 
child,  lost  among  its  white  coverings,  slept  too;  there  was  a 
dim  light  over  the  bed,  the  books,  the  pictures.  Beside  his 
wife's  pillow  was  a  table  on  which  there  lay  open  her  little 
Testament  and  the  Imitation"  her  father  had  given  her. 
Elsmere  sunk  down  beside  her,  appalled  by  the  contrast  be- 
tween this  soft  religious  peace  and  that  black  agony  of  doubt 
which  still  overshadowed  him.  He  knelt  there,  restraining  his 
breath  lest  it  should  wake  her,  wrestling  piteously  with  him- 
self, crying  for  pardon,  for  faith,  feeling  himself  utterly  un- 
worthy to  touch  even  the  dear  hand  that  lay  so  near  him. 
But  gradually  the  traditional  forces  of  his  life  reasserted  them- 
selves. The  horror  lifted.  Prayer  brought  comfort  and  a 
passionate  healing  self-abasement.  ' '  Master,  forgive — def end- 
purify ,  "  cried  the  aching  heart.  * '  There  is  none  other  that  fight- 
eth  for  us,  but  only  Thou,  O  God  r 

He  did  not  open  the  book  again.    Next  morning  he  put  it 


829 


|,  back  into  his  shelves.   If  there  were  any  Christian  who  could 
affront  such  an  antagonist  with  a  light  heart,  he  felt  wixh  a 
jil  shudder  of  memory  it  was  not  he. 

»  **Ihave  neither  learning  nor  experience  enougk— yet,"  he 
I  said  to  himself  slowly,  as  he  moved  away,  ''of  course  it  can 
1  be  met,  but  J  must  grow,  must  think— first." 

And  of  that  night's  wrestle  he  said  not  a  word  to  any  living 
soul.  He  did  penance  for  it  in  the  tenderest,  most  secret 
ways,  but  he  shrunk  in  misery  from  the  thought  of  revealing 
it  even  to  Catherine. 

CHAPTEB  XXI. 

Meanwhile  the  poor  poisoned  folk  at  Mile  End  lived  and 
apparently  throve,  in  defiance  of  all  the  laws  of  the  universe. 
Eobert,  as  soon  as  he  found  that  radical  measures  were  for  the 
time  hopeless,  had  applied  himself  with  redoubled  energy  to 
making  the  people  use  such  palliatives  as  were  within  their 
reach,  and  had  preached  boiled  water  and  the  removal  of  filth 
till,  as  he  declared  to  Catherine,  his  dreams  were  one  long  san- 
itary nightmare.  But  he  was  not  confiding  enough  to  believe 
that  the  people  paid  much  heed,  and  he  hoped  more  from  a 
hard  dry  winter  than  from  any  exertion  either  of  his  or  theirs. 

But,  alas!  with  the  end  of  November  a  season  of  furious 
rain  set  in. 

Then  Robert  began  to  watch  Mile  End  with  anxiety,  for  so 
far  every  outbreak  of  illness  there  had  followed  upon  unusual 
damp.  But  the  rains  passed,  leaving  behind  them  no  worse 
results  than  the  usual  winter  crop  of  lung  ailments  and  rheu- 
matism, and  he  breathed  again. 

Christmas  came  and  went,  and  with  the  end  of  December 
the  wet  weather  returned.  Day  after  day  roUing  masses  of 
southwest  cloud  came  up  from  the  Atlantic  and  wrapped  the 
whole  country  in  rain,  which  reminded  Catherine  of  her  West- 
moreland rain  more  than  any  she  had  yet  seen  in  the  south. 
Robert  accused  her  of  liking  it  for  that  reason,  but  she  shook 
her  head  with  a  sigh,  declaring  that  it  was  "  nothing  without 
the  becks." 

One  afternoon  she  was  shutting  the  door  of  the  school  behind 
-her,  atid  stepping  out  on  the  road  skirting  the  green— the  be- 
dabbled wintry  green— when  she  saw  Robert  emerging  from 
the  Mile  End  lane.   She  crossed  over  to  him,  wondering  as  she 
neared  him  that  he  seemed  to  take  no  notice  of  her.   He  was 


350 


BOBEB'B  ELSMEBE. 


striding  along,  his  wide-awake  over  his  eyes,  and  so  absorbed 
that  she  bad  almost  touched  him  before  he  saw  her. 

Darhng,  is  that  you?  Don't  stop  me,  I  am  going  to  take 
the  pony-carriage  in  for  Meyrick.  I  have  just  come  back  from 
that  accursed  place ;  three  cases  of  diphtheria  in  one  house, 
Sharland's  wife — and  two  others  down  with  fever." 

She  made  a  horrified  exclamation. 
It  will  spread,"  he  said,  gloomily,  "  I  know  it  will.    I  never 
saw  the  children  look  such  a  ghastly  crew  before.   Well,  I 
must  go  for  Meyrick  and  a  nurse,  and  we  must  isolate  and 
make  a  fight  for  it." 

In  a  few  days  the  diphtheria  epidemic  in  the  hamlet  had 
reached  terrible  proportions.  There  had  been  one  death,  others 
were  expected,  and  soon  Eobert  in  his  brief  hours  at  home 
could  find  no  relief  in  anything,  so  heavy  was  the  oppression  of 
the  day's  memories.  At  first  Catherine  for  the  child's  sake 
kept  away;  but  the  little  Mary  was  weaned,  had  a  good  Scotch 
niirse,  was  in  every  way  thriving,  and  after  a  day  or  two  Cath- 
erine's craving  to  help,  to  be  with  Robert  in  his  trouble,  was 
too  strong  to  be  withstood.  'But  she  dared  not  go  backward 
and  forward  between  her  baby  and  the  diphtheritic  children. 
So  she  bethought  herself  of  Mrs,  Elsmere's  servant,  old  Martha, 
who  was  still  inhabiting  Mrs.  Elsmere's  cottage  till  a  tenant 
could  be  found  for  it,  and  doing  good  service  meanwhile  as  an 
occasional  parish  nurse.  The  baby  and  its  nurse  went  over  to 
the  cottage.  Catherine  carried  the  child  there,  wrapped  close 
in  maternal  arms,  and  leaving  her  on  old  Martha's  lap,  went 
back  to  Robert.  . 

Then  she  and  he  devoted  themselves  to  a  hand-to-hand  fight 
with  the  epidemic.  At  the  climax  of  it  there  were  about  twen- 
ty children  down  with  it  in  different  stages,  and  seven  cases  of 
fever.  They  had  two  hospital  nurses;  one  of  the  better  cot- 
tages, turned  iuto  a  sanatorium,  accommodated  the  worst  cases 
under  the  nurses,  and  Robert  and  Catherine,  directed  by  them 
and  the  doctors,  took  the  responsibihty  of  the  rest,  he  helping 
to  nurse  the  boys  and  she  the  girls.  Of  the  fever  cases  Shar- 
land's wife  was  the  worst.  A  feeble  creature  at  aU  times,  it 
seemed  almost  impossible  she  could  weather  through.  But  day 
after  day  passed,  and  by  dint  of  incessant  nursing  she  still 
lived.  A  youth  of  twenty,  the  main  support  of  a  nK)ther  and 
five  or  six  younger  children,  w^as  also  desperately  ill.  Robert 
hardly  ever  had  him  out  of  his  thoughts,  and  the  boy's  dog-hke 


EOBERT  ELSMEBE.  331 


affection  for  the  rector,  struggling  with  his  deathly  weakness 
was  like  a  perpetual  exemplification  of  Ahriraanand  Ormuzd 
—the  power  of  life  struggling  with  the  power  of  death. 

It  was  a  fierce  fight.  Presently  it  seemed  to  the  husband  and 
wife  as  though  the  few  dafiy  hours  spent  at  the  rectory  were 
mere  halts  between  successive  acts  of  battle  with  the  plague- 
fiend-a  more  real  and  grim  Grendel  of  the  Marshes-for  the 
lives  of  children.  Catherine  could  always  sleep  in  these  mter- 
vals,  quietly  and  dreamlessly;  Eobert  very  soon  could  only 
sleep  by  the  help  of  some  prescription  of  old  Meyrick's.  On  all 
occasions  of  strain  since  his  boyhood  there  had  been  signs  m 
him  of  a  certain  lack  of  constitutional  hardness  which  his 
mother  knew  very  weU,  but  which  his  wife  was  only  just  be 
ginning  to  recognize.  However,  he  laughed  to  scorn  any  at- 
tempt to  restrain  his  constant  goings  and  comings,  or  those 
hours  of  night-nursing,  in  whicll,  as  the  hospital  nurses  were 
the  first  to  admit,  no  one  was  so  successful  as  the  rector.  And 
when  he  stood  up  on  Sundays  to  preach  in  Murewell  Church, 
the  worn  and  spiritual  look  of  the  man,  and  the  knowledge 
warm  at  each  heart  of  those  before  him  of  how  the  rector  not 
only  talked  but  lived,  carried  every  word  home. 

This  strain  upon  all  the  moral  and  physical  forces,  however, 
strangely  enough,  came  to  Robert  as  a  kind  of  relief.   It  broke 
through  a  tension  of  brain  which  of  late  had  become  an  oppres- 
sion.  And  for  both  him  and  Catherine  these  dark  times  had 
moments  of  intensest  joy,  points  of  white  light  illuminating 
heaven  and  earth.   There  were  cloudy  nights— wet,  stormy 
January  nights— when  sometimes  it  happened  to  them  to  come 
back  both  together  from  the  hamlet,  Robert  carrying  a  lantern, 
Catherine  clothed  in  water-proof  from  head  to  foot,  walking  be- 
side him,  the  rays  fiashingnow  on  her  face,  now  on  the  wooded 
sides  of  the  lane,  while  the  wind  howled  through  the  dark  vault 
of  branches  overhead.   And  then,  as  they  talked  or  were  silent, 
suddenly  a  sense  of  the  intense  blessedness  of  this  comradeship 
of  theirs  would  rise  like  a  flood  in  the  man's  heart,  and  he  would 
fling  his  free  arm  round  her,  forcing  her  to  stand  a  moment  in 
the  January  night  and  storm  while  he  said  to  her  words  of  pas- 
sionate gratitude,  of  faith  in  an  immortal  union  reaching  be- 
yond change  or  death,  lost  in  a  kiss  which  was  a  sacrament. 
Th^.n  there  were  the  moments  when  they  saw  their  child,  held 
high  in  Martha's  arms  at  the  window,  and  leaping  toward  her 
mother;  th^  moments  when  one  x>^id.  sickbr  bein^  after  an- 


I 


332 


ROBERT  ELSMERi:. 


other  was  pronounced  out  of  danger  ;  and  by  the  help  of  them 

the  weeks  passed  away. 

Nor  were  they  left  without  help  from  outside.  Lady  Hele» 
Varley  no  sooner  heard  the  news  than  she  hurried  over.  Rob- 
ert, on  his  way  one  morning  from  one  cottage  to  another,  saw 
her  pony-carriage  in  the  lane.  He  hastened  up  to  her  before 
she  could  dismoimt. 

"No,  Lady  Helen,  you  musn't  come  here,"  he  said  to  her, 
peremptorily,  as  she  held  out  her  hand. 

**0h,  Mr.  Elsmere,  let  me.  My  boy  is  in  town  with  his 
grandmother.  Let  me  just  go  through,  at  any  rate,  and  see 
what  I  can  send  you." 

Robert  shook  his  head,  smiling.  A  common  friend  of  theirs 
and  hers  had  once  described  this  little  lady  to  Elsmere  by  a 
Frencb  sentence  which  originally  applied  to  the  Duchess  de 
Choiseul.  Une  cliarmante  petite  fee  sortie  cTun  ceuf  en- 
chante  /"—so  it  ran.  Certainly,  as  Elsmere  looked  down  upon 
her  now,  fresh  from  those  squalid,  death-stricken  hovels  behind 
him,  he  was  brought  more  abruptly  than  ever  upon  the  con- 
trasts of  life.  Lady  Helen  wore  a  green  velvet  and  fur  mantle, 
in  the  production  of  which  even  Worth  had  felt  some  pride;  a 
little  green  velvet  bonnet  perched  on  her  fair  hair;  one  tiny 
hand,  ungloved,  seemed  ablaze  with  diamonds;  there  were  opals 
and  diamonds  somewhere  at  her  throat,  gleaming  among  her 
sables.  But  she  wore  her  jewels  as  carelessly  as  she  wore  her 
high  birth,  her  quaint,  irregular  prettiness,  or  the  one  or  two 
brilliant  gifts  which  made  her  sought  after  wherever  she  went. 
She  ioved  her  opals  as  she  loved  all  bright  things ;  if  it  pleased 
her  to  wear  them  in  the  morning,  she  wore  them ;  and  in  j&ve 
minutes  she  was  capable  of  making  the  sourest  Puritan  forget 
to  frown  on  her  and  them.  To  Robert  she  always  seemed  the 
quintessence  of  breeding,  of  aristocracy  at  their  best.  All  her 
freaks,  her  sallies,  her  absurdities  even,  were  graceful.  At  her 
freest  and  gayest  there  were  things  in  her  —  restraints,  reti- 
cences, perceptions — which  implied  behind  her  generations  of 
rich,  happy,  important  people,  with  ample  leisure  to  cultivate 
all  the  more  delicate  niceties  of  social  feeling  and  relation. 
Robert  was  often  struck  by  the  curious  differenqes  between  her 
and  Rose.  Rose  was  far  the  handsomer;  she  was  at  least  as 
clever;  and  she  had  a  strong,  imperious  will  where  Lady  Helen 
had  only  impulses  and  sympathies  and  engomments.  But  Rose 
belonged  to  the  class  whi(^  struggles,  where  each  individi^ 


BOBEET  HLSMEEE.  333 


depends  on  himself  and  know?  it.  Lady  Helen  had  never  strug- 
gled for  anything-all  the  best  things  of  the  world  were  hers  so 
easily  that  she  hardly  gave  them  a  thought;  or  rather,  what 
she  had  gathered  without  pain  she  held  so  lightly,  she  dispensed 
so  lavishly,  that  men's  eyes  followed  her,  fluttering  through 
life,  with  much  the  same  feeling  as  was  struck  from  Clough's 
radical  hero  by  the  peerless  Lady  Maria : 

"  Live,  be  lovely,  forget  us,  be  beautiful,  even  to  proudness. 

Even  for  their  poor  sakes  whose  happiness  is  to  behold  you; 

Live,  be  uncaring,  be  joyous,  be  sumptuous;  only  be  lovely  I" 

"Uncaring,"  however,  little  Lady  Helen  never  was.  If  she 
was  a  fairy,  she  was  a  fairy  aU  heart,  all  frank,  foolish  smiles 

N^Lady  Helen-no,"  Eobert  said  again.  "  Thisisno  place- 
for  you,  and  we  are  getting  on  capitally." 
She  pouted  a  little.  ,  .„.  i  „ 

"  I  believe  you  and  Mrs.  Elsmere  are  just  killmg  yourselves 
all  in  a  comer,  with  no  one  to  see,"  she  said,  mdignantly  It 
you  won't  let  me  see,  I  shall  send  Sir  Harry.   But  who  -and 
her  brown  fawn's  eyes  ran  startled  over  the  cottages  before  her 
who,  Mr.  Elsmere,  does  this  dreadful  place  belong  to? 
"Mr.  Wendover,"  said  Eobert,  shortly. 
"Impossible!"  she  cried,  incredulously.    "Why  I  wouldnt 
ask  one  of  my  dogs  to  sleep  there,"       shepomtedto  thenear^ 
est  hovel,  whereof  the  walls  were  tottenng  outward  the  thatch 
was  faUing  to  pieces,  and  the  windows  were  mended  with  any- 
thing that  came  handy-rags,  paper,  orthecrownof  an  old  hat 
"No,  you  would  be  ill  advised,"  said  Eobert,  looking  with 
a  bitter  Uttle  smile  at  the  sleek  dachshund  that  sat  bhnkmg 
beside  its  mistress. 
"  But  what  is  the  agent  about?"  ,  a- 

Then  Eobert  told  her  the  story,  not  mincing  his  words,  bmce 
the  epidemic  had  begun,  all  that  sense  of  imaginative  attraction 
which  had  been  reviving  in  him  toward  the  squire  had  been 
simply  blotted  out  by  a  fierce  heat  of  indignation.  When  he 
thought  of  Mr.  Wendover  now,  he  thought  of  him  as  the  man 
to  whom  in  strict  truth  it  was  owing  that  helpless  children 
died  in  choking  torture.  AU  that  agony  of  wrath  and  pity  he 
had  gone  through  in  the  last  ten  days  sprung  to  his  hps  now  as 
he  talked  to  Lady  Helen,  and  poured  itself  into  his  words. 
"  Old  Meyrick  and  I  have  taken  things  into  our  own  hands 


334 


ROBEKT  ELSMERE. 


now,"  he  said  at  last,  briejly.  We  have  ah-eady  made  two 
cottages  fairly  habitable.  To-morrow  the  inspector  comes.  I 
told  the  people  yesterday  I  wouldn't  be  bound  by  my  promise 
a  day  longer.  He  must  put  the  screw  on  Henslowe,  and  if 
Henslowe  dawdles,  why  we  shall  just  drain  and  repair  and  sink 
for  a  well  ourselves.  I  can  find  the  money  somehow.  At  pres- 
ent we  get  all  our  water  from  one  of  the  farms  on  the  brow." 

''Money I"  said  Lady  Helen,  impulsively,  Jier  looks  warm 
with  sympathy  for  the  pale,  harassed  young  rector.  **Sit 
Harry  shall  send  you  as  much  as  you  want.  And  anything 
else— blankets— coals  ?" 

Out  came  her  note-book,  and  Robert  was  drawn  into  a  list. 
Then,  full  of  joyfulness  at  being  allowed  to  help,  she  gathered 
up  her  reins,  she  nodded  her  pretty  little  head  at  him,  and  was 
just  starting  off  her  ponies  at  full  speed,  equally  eager  to  tell 
Harry  "  and  to  ransack  Churton  for  the  stores  required,  when 
it  occurred  to  her  to  pull  up  again. 

''Oh,  Mr.  Elsmere,  my  aunt.  Lady  Charlotte,  does  nothing 
but  talk  about  your  sister-in-law.  Why  did  you  keep  her  all 
to  yourself  ?  Is  it  kind,  is  it  neighborly,  to  have  such  a  won- 
der to  stay  with  you  and  let  nobody  share  ?" 

''  A  wonder  ?"  said  Robert,  amused.  "  Rose  plays  the  viohn 
very  well,  but — " 

"As  if  relations  ever  saw  one  in  proper  perspective!"  ex- 
claimed Lady  Helen.  "My  aunt  wants  to  be  allowed  to  have 
her  in  town  next  season  if  you  will  all  let  her.  I  think  she 
would  find  it  fun.  Aunt  Charlotte  knows  all  the  world  and  his 
wife.  And  if  I'm  there,  and  Miss  Ley  bum  will  let  me  make 
friends  with  her,  why,  you  know,  Jean  just  protect  her  a  little 
from  Aunt  Charlotte !" 

The  httle  laughing  face  bent  forward  again;  Robert,  smiling, 
raised  his  hat,  and  the  ponies  whirled  her  off.  If  anybody  else. 
Elsmere  would  have  thought  aU  this  effusion  insincere  or 
patronizing.  But  Lady  Helen  was  the  most  spontaneous  of 
mortals,  and  the  only  high-bom  woman  he  had  ever  met  who 
was  really,  and  not  only  apparently,  free  from  the  "nonsense 
of  rank."  Robert  shrewdly  suspected  Lady  Charlotte's  social 
tolerance  to  be  a  mere  varnish.  But  this  little  person,  and  her 
favorite  brother  Hugh,  to  judge  from  the  accounts  of  him,  must 
always  have  found  Ufe  too  romantic,  too  wildly  and  dehght- 
f ully  interesting  from  top  to  bottom,  to  be  measured  by  any 
JbPt  romantic  standards. 


ROBERT  ELSMERE.  335 

Next  day  Sir  Harry  Varley ,  a  great  burly  country  squire,  who 
ored  his  wife,  kept  the  hounds,  owned  a  model  estate,  and 
thanked  God  every  morning  that  he  was  an  Englishman,  rode 
over  to  Mile  End.  Eobert,  who  had  just  been  round  the  place 
with  the  inspector  and  was  dead  tired,  had  only  energy  to  show 
him  a  few  of  the  worst  enormities.  Sir  Harry,  leaving  a  check 
behind  him,  rode  oif  with  a  discharge  of  strong  language,  at 
which  Robert,  clergyman  as  he  was,  only  grimly  smiled. 

A  few  days  later  Mr.  Wendover's  crimes  as  a  land-owner,  his 
agent's  brutality,  young  Elsmere's  devotion,  and  the  horrors  of 
the  Mile  End  outbreak,  were  in  everybody's  mouths.  The 
county  was  roused.  The  Radical  newspaper  came  out  on  the 
Saturday  with  a  flaming  article  ;  Robert,  much  to  his  annoy- 
ance, found  himself  the  local  hero;  and  money  began  to  come 
in  to  him  freely. 

On  the  Monday  morning  Henslowe  appeared  on  the  scene 
with  an  army  of  workmen.  A  racy  communication  from  the 
inspector  had  reached  him  two  days  before,  so  had  a  copy  of 
the  Churton  Advertiser."  He  had  spent  Sunday  in  a  drink- 
ing bout,  turning  over  all  possible  plans  of  vengeance  and 
evasion.  Toward  the  evening,  however,  his  wife,  a  gaunt 
clever  Scotch  woman,  who  saw  ruin  before  them,  and  had  on 
occasion  an  even  sharper  tongue  than  her  husband,  managed 
td  capture  the  supplies  of  brandy  in  the  house  and  effectually 
conceal  them.  Then  she  waited  for  the  moment  of  collapse 
which  came  on  toward  morning,  and  with  her  hands  on  her 
hips  she  poured  him  a  volley  of  home-truths  which  not  even 
Sir'Harry  Varley  could  have  bettered.  Henslowe's  nerve  gave 
way.  He  went  out  at  day-break,  white  and  sullen,  to  look  for 
workmen. 

Robert,  standing  on  the  step  of  a  cottage,  watched  him  give 
his  orders,  and  took  vigilant  note  of  their  substance.  They 
embodied  the  inspector's  directions,  and  the  rector  was  satis- 
fied. Henslowe  was  obliged  to  pass  him  on  his  way  to  another 
group  of  .houses.  At  first  he  affected  not  to  see  the  rector, 
then  suddenly  Elsmere  was  conscious  that  the  man's  bloodshot 
eyes  were  on  him.  Such  a  look!  If  hate  could  have  killed, 
Elsmere  would  have  fallen  where  he  stood.  Yet  the  man's 
hand  mechanically  moved  to  his  hat,  as  though  the  spell  of  his 
wife's  harangue  were  still  potent  over  his  shaking  muscles. 

Robert  took  no  notice  whatever  of  the  salutation.  He  stood 
calmly  watching  till  Henslowe  disappeared  into  the  last  house. 


986 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


Then  he  called  one  of  the  agent's  train,  heard  what  was  to  be 
done,  gave  a  sharp  nod  of  assent,  and  turned  on  his  heel.  So 
far  so  good;  the  servant  had  been  made  to  feel,  but  he  wished 
it  had  been  the  master.  Oh,  those  three  httle  emaciated  creat- 
ures whose  eyes  he  had  closed,  whose  clammy  hands  he  had 
held  to  the  last!— what  reckoning  should  be  asked  for  their 
undeserved  torments  when  the  Great  Account  came  to  be 
made  up  ? 

Meanwhile  not  a  sound  apparently  of  all  this  reached  the 
squire  in  the  sublime  sohtude  of  Murewell.  A  fortnight  had 
passed.  Henslowe  had  been  conquered,  the  county  had  rushed 
to  Elsmere's  help,  and  neither  he  nor  Mrs.  Darcy  had  made  a 
sign.  Their  hf e  was  so  abnormal  that  it  was  perfectly  possible 
they  had  heard  nothing.  Elsmere  wondered  when  they  would 
hear. 

The  rector's  chief  help  and  support  all  through  had  been  old 
Meyrick.  The  parish  doctor  had  been  in  bed  with  rheumatism 
when  the  epidemic  broke  out,  and  Robert,  feeling  it  a  comfort 
to  be  rid  of  him,  had  thrown  the  whole  business  into  the  hands 
of  Meyrick  and  his  son.  This  son  was  nominally  his  father's 
junior  partner,  but  as  he  was,  besides,  a  young  and  briUiant 
M.  D.  fresh  from  a  great  hospital,  and  his  father  was  just  a 
poor  old  general  practitioner,  with  the  barest  qualification,  and 
only  forty  years'  experience  to  recommend  him,  it  will  easfly 
be  imagined  that  the  subordination  was  purely  nominal.  In- 
deed young  Meyrick  was  fast  ousting  his  father  in  all  directions, 
and  the  neighborhood,  which  had  so  far  found  itself  unable 
either  to  enter  or  to  quit  this  mortal  scene  without  old  Mey- 
rick's  assistance,  was  beginning  to  send  notes  to- the  house  in 
Churton  High  Street,  whereon  the  superscription  ''Dr.  Edward 
Meyrick"  was  underlined  with  ungrateful  emphasis.  The 
father  took  his  deposition  very  quietly.  Only  on  Murewell  Hall 
would  he  allow  no  trespassing,  and  so  long  as  his  son  left  him 
undisturbed  there,  he  took  his  effacement  in  other  quarters 
with  perfect  meekness. 

Young  Elsmere's  behavior  to  him,  however,  at  a  time  when 
all  the  rest  of  the  Churton  world  was  beginning  to  hold  him 
cheap  and  let  him  see  it,  had  touched  the  old  man's  heart,  an(f 
he  was  the  rector's  slave  in  this  Mile  End  business.  Edward 
Meyrick  would  come  whirling  in  and  out  of  the  hamlet  once  a 
day.  Robert  was  seldom  sorry  to  see  the  back  of  him.  His 
attainments,  of  course,  were  useful,  but  his  cock-sureness  was 


337 


irritating,  and  his  manner  to  his  father  abominable.  The 
father,  on  the  other  hand,  came  over  in  the  shabby  pony-cart  he 

i  had  driven  for  the  last  forty  years,  and  having  himself  no  press 
of  business,  would  spend  hours  with  the  rector  over  the  cases, 
giving  them  an  infinity  of  patient  watching,  and  amusing  Rob- 

j  ert  by  the  cautious  hostility  he  would  allow  himself  every  now 
and  then  toward  his  son's  new-fangled  devices. 
At  first  Meyrick  showed  himself  fidgety  as  to  the  squire. 

1  Had  he  been  seen,  been  heard  from  ?  He  received  Robert's 
sharp  negatives  with  long  sighs,  but  Robert  clearly  saw  that, 
like  the  rest  of  the  world,  he  was  too  much  afraid  of  Mr.  Wen- 
dover  to  go  and  beard  him.   Some  months  before,  as  it  hap- 

I  pened,  Elsmere  had  told  him  the  story  of  his  encounter  with 
the  squire,  and  had  been  a  good  deal  moved  and  surprised  by 
the  old  man's  concern. 

One  day,  about  three  weeks  from  the  beginning  of  the  out- 
break, when  the  state  of  things  in  the  hamlet  was  beginning 
decidedly  to  mend,  Meyrick  arrived  for  his  morning  round, 
much  preoccupied.  He  hurried  his  work  a  little,  and  after  it 
was  done  asked  Robert  to  walk  up  the  road  with  him. 

I  have  seen  the  squire,  sir,"  he  said,  turning  on  his  com- 
panion, with  a  certain  excitement. 
Robert  flushed. 

"  Have  you  ?"  he  replied,  with  his  hands  behind  him  and  a 
world  of  expression  in  his  sarcastic  voice. 

*'lFou  misjudge  him!  You  misjudge  him,  Mr.  Elsmere!" 
the  old  man  said,  tremulously.  told  you  he  could  know 
nothing  of  this  business—and  he  didn't !  He  has  been  in  town 
part  of  the  time,  and  down  here— how  is  he  to  know  anything? 
He  sees  nobody.  That  man  Henslowe,  sir,  must  be  a  real  bad 
fellow." 

"  Don't  abuse  the  man,"  said  Robert,  looking  up.    '*It's  not 
worth  while,  when  jou  can  say  your  mind  of  the  master." 
Old  Meyrick  sighed. 

^'Well,"  said  Robert,  after  a  moment,  his  lip  drawn  and 
quivering,  ^*you  told  him  the  story,  I  suppose?  Seven  deaths, 
is  it,  by  now?  Well,  what  sort  of  impression  did  these  unfor- 
tunate accidents  "—and  he  smiled—* '  produce  ?" 

*'He  talked  of  sending  money,"  said  Meyrick,  doubtfully; 
"he  said  he  would  have  Henslowe  up  and  inquire.  He  seemed 
'put  about  and  annoyed.  Oh,  Mr.  Elsmere,  you  think  too  hardly 
of  the  squire,  that  you  do !" 


338 


BOBEBT  ELSMEBE. 


They  strolled  on  together  in  silence.  Robert  was  not  inclined 
to  discuss  the  matter.  But  old  Meyrick  seemed  to  be  laboring 
under  some  suppressed  emotion,  and  presently  he.  began  upon 
his  own  experiences  as  a  doctor  of  the  Wendover  family.  He 
had  already  broached  the  subject  more  or  less  vaguely  with 
Robert.  Now,  however,  he  threw  his  medical  reserve,  gener- 
ally his  strongest  characteristic,  to  the  winds.  He  insisted  on 
telling  his  companion,  who  listened  reluctantly,  the  whole 
miserable  and  ghastly  story  of  the  old  squire's  suicide.  He 
described  the  heir's  summons,  his  arrival  just  in  time  for  the 
last  scene  with  all  its  horrors,  and  that  mysterious  condition 
of  the  squire  for  some  months  afterward,  when  no  one,  not 
even  Mrs.  Darcy,  had  been  admitted  to  the  Hall,  and  old  Mey- 
rick, directed  at  intervals  by  a  great  London  doctor,  had  been 
the  only  spectator  of  Roger  Wendover's  physical  and  mental 
breakdown,  the  only  witness  of  that  dark  consciousness  of  in- 
herited fatality  which  at  that  period  of  his  life  not  even  the 

.squire's  iron  will  had  been  able  wholly  to  conceal. 

-  Robert,  whose  attention  was  inevitably  roused  after  awhile, 
found  himself  with  some  curiosity  realizing  the  squire  from 
another  man's  totally  different  point  of  view.  Evidently  Mey- 
rick had  seen  him  at  such  moments  as  wring  from  the  harshest 
nature  whatever  grains  of  tenderness,  of  pity,  or  of  natural 
human  weakness  may  be  in  it.  And  it  was  clear,  too,  that  the 
squire,  conscious  perhaps  of  a  shared  secret,  and  feeling  a  cer- 
tain soothing  influence  in  the  naivete  and  simplicity  of  the  old 
man's  sympathy,  had  allowed  himself  at  times,  in  the  years 
succeeding  that  illness  of  his,  an  amount  of  unbending  in  Mey- 
rick's  presence,  such  as  probably  no  other  mortal  had  ever 
witnessed  in  him  since  his  earliest  youth. 

And  yet  how  childish  the  old  man's  whole  mental  image  of 
the  squire  was  after  all.  What  small  account  it  made  of  the 
subtleties,  the  gnarled  intricacies,  and  contradictions  of  such  a 
character !  Horror  at  his  father's  end,  and  dread  of  a  like  fate 
for  himself!  Robert  did  not  know  very  much  of  the  squire, 
but  he  knew  enough  to  feel  sure  that  this  confiding  indulgent 
theory  of  Meyrick's  was  ludicrously  far  from  the  mark  as  an 
adequate  explanation  of  Mr.  Wendover's  later  life. 

Presently  Meyrick  became  aware  of  the  sort  of  tacit  resist- 
ance which  his  companion's  mind  was  opposing  to  his  own.  He 
dropped  the  wandering  narrative  he  was  busy  upon  with  a  sigh. 
*'Ah,  well,  I  dare  say,  it's  h£^  it's  hard,"  he  said,  with 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


839 


patient  acquiescence  in  his  voice,  to  believe  a  man  can't  help 
himself,  I  dare  say  we  doctors  get  to  muddle  up  right  and 
wrong.  But  if  ever  there  was  a  man  sick  in  mind— for  all  his 
book-learning  they  talk  about— and  sick  in  soul,  that  man  is 
the  squire." 

Eobert  looked  at  him  with  a  softer  expression.  There  was  a 
new  dignity  about  the  simple  old  man.  The  old-fashioned  def- 
erence, which  had  never  let  him  forget  in  speaking  to  Robert 
that  he  was  speaking  to  a  man  of  family,  and  which  showed 
itself  in  all  sorts  of  antiquated  locutions  which  were  a  torment 
to  his  son,  had  given  way  to  something  still  more  deeply  in- 
grained. His  gaunt  figure,  with  the  stoop,  and  the  spectacles 
and  the  long  straight  hair— like  the  figure  of  a  superannuated 
school-master— assumed,  as  he  turned  again  to  his  younger 
companion,  something  of  authority,  something  almost  of  state- 
iiness. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Elsmere,"  he  said,  laying  his  shrunk  hand  on  the 
younger  man's  sleeve  and  speaking  with  emotion,  you're  very 
good  to  the  poor.  We're  all  proud  of  you— you  and  your  good 
lady.  But  when  you  were  coming,  and  I  heard  tell  all  about 
you,  I  thought  of  my  poor  squire,  and  I  said  to  myself,  *  That 
young  man'U  be  good  to  him.  The  squire  will  make  friends 
with  him,  and  Mr.  Elsmere  will  have  a  good  wife— and  there'll 
be  children  born  to  him— and  the  squire  will  take  an  interest— 
and— and— may  be—  " 

The  old  man  paused.   Robert  grasped  his  hand  silently. 

''And  there  was  something  in  the  way  between  you,"  the 
speaker  went  on,  sighing.  ' '  I  dare  say  you  were  quite  right- 
quite  right.  I  can't  judge.  Only  there  are  ways  of  doing  a 
thing.  And  it  was  a  last  chance;  and  now  it's  missed— it's 
missed.  Ah!  it's  no  good  talking;  he  has  a  heart— he  has! 
Many's  the  .  kind  thing  he's  done  in  old  days  for  me  and  mine 
—I'll  never  forget  them !  But  all  these  last  few  years— oh,  I 
know,  I  know.  You  can't  go  and  shut  your  heart  up,  and  fly 
in  the  face  of  all  the  duties  the  Lord  laid  on  you,  without  losing 
yourself  and  setting  the  Lord  against  you.  But  it  is  pitiful, 
Mr.  Elsmere,  it's  pitiful!" 

It  seemed  to  Robert  suddenly  as  though  there  was  a  Divine 
breath  passing  through  the  wintery  lane  and  through  the  shak- 
ing voice  of  the  old  man.  Beside  the  spirit  looking  out  of  those 
wrinkled  eyes,  his  own  hot  youth,  its  justest  resentments,  its 
most  righteous  angers,  seemed  crude,  harsh,  inexcusable. 


340 


KOBERT  ELSMEBE. 


Thank  you,  Meyrick,  thank  you,  and  God  bless  you!  Don't 
imagine  I  will  forget  a  word  you  have  said  to  me." 

The  rector  shook  the  hand  he  held  warmly  twice  over,  a 
gentle  smile  passed  over  Meyrick's  aging  face,  and  they  parted. 

That  night  it  fell  to  Robert  to  sit  up  after  midnight  with  John 
All  wood,  the  youth  of  twenty  whose  case  had  been  a  severer 
tax  on  the  powers  of  the  little  nursing  staff  than  perhaps  any 
other.  Mother  and  neighbors  were  worn  out,  and  it  was.diffi- 
cult  to  spare  a  hospital  nurse  for  long  together  from  the  diph- 
theria cases.  Eobert,  therefore,  had  insisted  during  the  pre- 
ceding week  on  talking  alternate  nights  with  one  of  the  nurses. 
During  the  first  hours  before  midnight  he  slept  soundly  on  a 
bed  made  up  in  the  ground-floor  room  of  the  little  sanatorium. 
Then  at  twelve  the  nurse  called  him,  and  he  went  out,  his  eyes 
still  heavy  with  sleep,  into  a  still  frosty  winter's  night.  After 
so  much  rain,  so  much  restlessness  of  wind  and  cloud,  the 
silence  and  the  starry  calm  of  it  were  infinitely  welcome.  The 
sharp  cold  air  cleared  his  brain  and  braced  his  nerves,  and  by 
the  time  he  reached  the  cottage  whither  he  was  bound,  he  was 
broad  awake.  He  opened  the  door  softly,  passed  through  the 
lower  room,  crowded  with  sleeping  children,  climbed  the  nar- 
row  stairs  as  noiselessly  as  possible,  and  found  himself  in  a 
garret,  faintly  lighted,  a  bed  in  one  corner  and  a  woman  sitting 
beside  it.  The  woman^^^ided  away,  the  rector  looked  carefully 
at  the  table  of  instructions  hanging  over  the  bed,  assured  him- 
self that  wine  and  milk  and  beef  essence  and  medicines  were 
ready  to  his  hand,  put  out  his  watch  on  the  wooden  table  near 
the  bed,  and  sat  him  down  to  his  task.  The  boy  was  sleeping 
the  sleep  of  weakness.  Food  was  to  be  given  every  half  hour, 
and  in  this  perpetual  impulse  to  the  system  lay  his  only  chance. 

The  rector  had  his  Greek  Testament  with  hinr,  and  could 
just  read  it  by  the  help  of  the  dim  light.  But  after  awhile,  a? 
the  still  hours  passed  on,  it  dropped  on  to  his  knee,  and  he  sat 
thinking— endlessly  thinking.  The  young  laborer  lay  motion^ 
less  beside  him,  the  lines  of  the  long  emaciated  frame  showing 
through  the  bed-clothes.  The  night-light  flickered  on  the 
broken,  discolored  ceiling;  every  now  and  then  a  mouse 
scratched  in  the  plaster;  the  mother's  heavy  breathing  came 
from  the  next  room ;  sometimes  a  dog  barked  or  an  owl  cried 
outside.  Otherwise  deep  silence,  such  silence  as  drives  the  soul 
back  upon  itself. 

Elsmere  was  conscious  of  a  strange  sense  of  moral  expansion. 


BOBEBT  ELSMEBE. 


341 


The  stern  judgments,  the  passionate  condemnations  which  his 
nature  housed  so  painfully,  seemed  lifted  from  it.  The  soul 
breathed  an  ''ampler  sether,  a  diviner  air."  Oh!  the  mys- 
teries of  hfe  and  character,  the  subtle  inexhaustible  claims  of 
pity!  The  problems  which  hang  upon  our  being  here;  its 
mixture  of  elements;  the  pressure  of  its  inexorable  physical 
environment;  the  relations  of  mind  to  body,  of  man's  poor  will 
to  this  tangled,  tyrannous  life— it  was  along  these  old,  old  Mnes 
his  thought  went  painfully  groping;  and  always  at  intervals  it 
came  back  to  the  squire,  pondering,  seeking  to  understand,  a 
new  soberness,  a  new  humility  and  patience  entering  in. 

And  yet  it  was  not  Meyrick's  facts  exactly  that  had  brought 
this  about.  Robert  thought  them  imperfect,  only  half  true. 
Rather  was  it  the  spirit  of  love,  of  infinite  forbearance  in  which 
the  simpler,  duller  nature  had  declared  itself  that  had  appealed 
to  him,  nay,  reproached  him. 

Then  these  thoughts  led  him  on  further  and  further  from 
man  to  God,  from  human  defect  to  the  Eternal  Perf ectness. 
Never  once  during  those  hours  did  Elsmere's  hand  fail  to  per- 
form its  needed  service  to  the  faint  sleeper  beside  him,  and  yet 
that  night  was  one  long  dream  and  strangeness  to  him,  nothing 
real  anywhere  but  consciousness,  and  God  its  source;  the  soul 
attacked  every  now  and  then  by  phantom  stabs  of  doubt,  of 
bitter  brief  misgivings,  as  the  barriers  of  sense  between  it  and 
the  eternal  enigma  grew  more  ^d  more  transparent,  wrestling 
awhile,  and  then  prevailing.  And  each  golden  moment  of 
certainty,  of  conquering  faith,  seemed  to  Robert  in  some  sort  a 
gift  from  Catherine's  hand.  It  was  she  who  led  him  through 
the  shades;  it  was  her  voice  murmuring  in  his  ear. 

When  the  first  gray  dawn  began  to  creep  in  slowly  percepti- 
ble waves  into  the  room,  Elsmere  felt  as  though  not  hours  but 
years  of  experience  lay  between  him  and  the  beginnings  of  his 
watch. 

''  It  is  by  these  moments  we  should  date  our  lives,"  he  mur 
mured  to  himself  as  he  rose;  ''they  are  the  only  real  land- 
marks." 

It  was  eight  o'clock,  and  the  nurse  who  was  to  relieve  him 
had  come.  The  results  of  the  night  for  his  charge  were  good; 
the  strength  had  been  maintained,  the  pulse  was  firmer,  the 
temperature  lower.  The  boy,  throwing  off  his  drowsiness,  lay 
watching  the  rector's  face  as  he  talked  in  an  under  tone  to  the 
nurse,  his  haggard  eyes  full  of  a  dumb,  friendly  wistfulnesa 


342 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


When  Eobert  bent  over  him  to  say  good-bye,  thva  expression 
brightened  into  something  more  positive,  and  Eobert  left  bim, 
feeling  at  last  that  there  was  a  promise  of  life  in  his  look  and 
touch. 

In  another  moment  he  had  stepped  out  into  the  January 
morning.  It  was  clear  and  still  as  the  night  had  been.  In  the 
east  there  was  a  pale  promise  of  sun ;  the  reddish-brown  trunks 
of  the  fir  woods  had  just  caught  it,  and  rose  faintly  glowing  in 
endless  vistas  and  colonnades  one  behind  the  other.  The 
flooded  river  itself  rushed  through  the  bridge  as  full  and 
turbid  as  before,  but  all  the  other  water  surfaces  had  gleaming 
films  of  ice.  The  whole  ruinous  place  had  a  clean,  almost  a 
festal  air  under  the  touch  of  the  frost,  while  on  the  side  of  the 
hill  leading  to  Murewell,  tree  rose  above  tree,  the  delicate  net- 
work of  their  wintry  twigs  and  branches  set  against  stretches 
of  frost-whitened  grass,  till  finally  they  climbed  into  the  pale 
aU  completing  blue.  In  a  copse  close  at  hand  there  were 
wood-cutters  at  work,  and  piles  of  gleaming  laths  shining 
through  the  underwood.  Eobbins  hopped  along  the  frosty  road, 
and  as  he  walked  on  through  the  houses  toward  the  bridge, 
Robert's  quick  ear  distinguished  that  most  wintery  of  aU  sounds 
—the  cry  of  a  flock  of  fleldfares  passing  overhead. 

As  he  neared  the  bridge  he  suddenly  caught  sight  of  a  figure 
upon  it,  the  figure  of  a  man  wrapped  in  a  large  Inverness  cloak, 
leaning  against  the  stone  parapet.  With  a  start  he  recognized 
the  squire. 

He  went  up  to  him  without  an  instant's -slackening  of  his 
steady  step.  The  squire  heard  the  sound  of  some  one  coming, 
turned,  and  saw  the  rector. 

''I  am  glad  to  see  you  here,  Mr.  Wendover,"  said  Robert, 
stopping  and  holding  out  his  hand.  I  meant  to  have  come 
to  talk  to  you  about  this  place  this  morning.  I  ought  to  have 
come  before." 

He  spoke  gently,  and  quite  simply,  almost  as  if  they  had 
parted  the  day  before.  The  squire  touched  his  hand  for  an  in- 
stant. ''You  may  not,  perhaps,  be  aware,  Mr.  Elsmere,"  he 
said,  endeavoring  to  speak  with  all  his  old  hauteur,  while  his 
heavy  lips  twitched  nervously,  '*that,  for  one  reason  and  an- 
other, I  knew  nothing  of  the  epidemic  here  till  yesterday,  when 
Meyrick  told  me." 

*'  I  heard  from  Mr.  Meyrick  that  it  was  so.   As  you  are  here 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


343 


Tiow,  Mr.  Wendover,  and  I  am  in  no  great  hurry  taget  home, 
may  I  take  you  through  and  show  you  the  people  ?" 

The  squire  at  last  looked  at  him  straight— at  the  face  worn 
and  pale,  yet  still  so  extraordinarily  youthful,  in  which  some- 
thing of  the  solemnity  and  high  emotion  of  the  night  seemed 
to  be  still  lingering. 

Are  you  just  come  he  said,  abruptly,  or  are  you  going 
back  ?" 

I  have  been  here  through  the  night,  sitting  up  with  one  of 
the  fever  cases.  It's  hard  work  for  the  nurses,  and  the  rela- 
tions sometimes,  without  help." 

The  squire  moved  on  mechanically  toward  the  village,  and 
Robert  moved  beside  him. 

' '  And  Mrs.  Elsmere  ?" 

''Mrs.  Elsmere  was  here  most  of  yesterday.  She  used  to 
stay  the  night  when  the  diphtheria  was  at  its  worst;  but  there 
are  only  four  anxious  cases  left— the  rest  all  convalescent." 

The  squire  said  no  more,  and  they  turned  into  the  lane, 
where  the  ice  lay  thick  in  the  deep  ruts,  and  on  either  hand 
curls  of  smoke  rose  into  the  clear  cold  sky.  The  squire  looked 
about  him  with  eyes  which  no  detail  escaped.  Robert,  without 
a  word  of  comment,  pointed  out  this  feature  and  that,  showed 
where  Henslowe  had  begun  repairs,  f^here  the  new  well  was  to 
be,  what  the  water  supply  had  been  till  now,  drew  the  squire's 
attention  to  the  roofs,  the  pig-sties,  the  drainage  or  rather 
complete  absense  of  drainage,  and  all  in  the  dry  voice  of  some 
one  going  through  a  catalogue.  Word  had  already  fled  like 
wildfire  through  the  hamlet  that  the  squire  was  there.  Chil- 
dren and  adults,  a  pale  emaciated  crew,  poured  out  into  the 
wintery  air  to  look.  The  squire  knit  his  brows  with  annoy- 
ance as  the  little  crowd  in  the  lane  grew.  Robert  took  no 
notice. 

Presently  he  pushed  open  the  door  of  the  house  where  he 
had  spent  the  night.  In  the  kitchen  a  girl  of  sixteen  was  clear- 
ing away  the  various  nondescript  heaps  on  which  the  family 
had  slept,  and  was  preparing  breakfast.  The  squire  looked  at 
the  floor. 

"  I  thought  I  understood  from  Henslowe,"  he  muttered,  as 
though  to  himself,  ''that  there  was  no  mud  floors  left  on  the 

estate—" 

There  are  only  three  houses  in  Mile  End  without  them," 
said  Robert,  catching  what  he  said. 


344 


BOBERT  ELSMERE. 


They  went  upstairs,  and  the  mother  stood  open-eyed  while 
the  squire's  restless  look  gathered  in  the  details  of  the  room, 
the  youth's  face,  as  he  lay  back  on  his  pillow,  whiter  than 
they,  exhausted  and  yet  refreshed  by  the  sponging  with  vinegar 
and  water  which  the  mother  had  just  been  administering  to 
him;  the  bed,  the  gaps  in  the  worm-eaten  boards,  the  spots  in 
the  roof  where  the  plaster  bulged  inward,  as  though  a  shake 
would  bring  it  down;  the  coarse  china  shepherdesses  on  the 
mantel-shelf,  and  the  flowers  which  Catherine  had  put  there  the 
day  before.  He  asked  a  few  questions,  said  an  abrupt  word  or 
two  to  the  mother,  and  they  tramped  down-stairs  again  and  into 
the  street.  Then  Robert  took  him  across  to  the  httle  impro- 
vised hospital,  saying  to  him  on  the  threshold,  with  a  moment's 
hesitation : 

As  you  know,  for  adults  there  is  not  much  risk,  but  there 
is  always  some  risk — " 

A  peremptory  movement  of  the  squire's  hand  stopped  him, 
and  they  went  in.  In  the  down-stairs  room  were  half  a  dozen 
convalescents,  pale,  shadowy  creatures,  four  of  them  under 
ten,  sitting  up  in  their  little  cots,  each  of  them  with  a  red 
flannel  jacket  drawn  from  Lady  Helen's  stores,  and  enjoying 
the  breakfast  which  a  nurse  in  white  cap  and  apron  had  just 
brought  them.  Upstairs,  in  a  room  from  which  a  lath-and- 
plaster  partition  had  been  removed,  and  which  had  been  adapt- 
ed, warmed  and  ventilated  by  various  contrivances  to  which 
Robert  and  Meyrick  had  devoted  their  practical  minds,  were 
the  ''four  anxious  cases."  One  of  them,  a  little  creature  of 
six,  one  of  Sharland's  black-eyed  children,  was  sitting  up,  sup- 
ported by  the  nurse,  and  coughing  its  little  life  away.  As  soon 
as  he  saw  it  Robert's  step  quickened.  He  forgot  the  squire  al- 
together. He  came  and  stood  by  the  bedside,  rigidly  still,  for 
he  could  do  nothing,  but  his  whole  soul  absorbed  in  that  horri- 
ble struggle  for  air.  How  often  he  had  seen  it  now,  and  never 
without  the  same  wild  sense  of  revolt  and  protest !  At  last  the 
hideous  membrane  was  loosened,  the  child  got  relief,  and  lay 
back  white  and  corpse-like,  but  with  a  pitiful  momentary  re- 
laxation of  the  drawn  lines  on  its  little  brow.  Robert  stooped 
and  kissed  the  damp  tiny  hand.  The  child's  eyes  remained 
shut,  but  the  fingers  made  a  feeble  effort  to  close  on  his. 

"  Mr.  Elsmere,"  said  the  nurse,  a  motherly  body,  looking  at. 
him  with  friendly  admonition,  *'  if  you  don't  go  home  and  rest 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


345 


you'U  be  ill,  too,  and  I'd  like  to  know  who'U  be  the  better  for 

thatf  . 

"now  many  deaths?"  asked  the  squire,  abruptly,  touching 
Elsmere's  arm,  and  so  reminding  Robert  of  his  existence. 

Mey rick  spoke  of  deaths." 

He  stood  near  the  door,  but  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  little 
bed,  on  the  half-swooning  child. 

' '  Seven, "  said  Robert,  turning  upon  him.    ' '  Five  of  diphthe- 
ria, two  of  fever.   That  little  one  will  go,  too." 

Horrible !"  said  the  squire,  under  his  breath,  and  then  moved 

to  the  door.  i  • 

The  two  men  went  down-stairs  in  perfect  silence.  Below,  m 
the  convalescent  room,  the  children  were  capable  of  smiles,  and 
of  quick,  coquettish  beckonings  to  the  rector  to  come  and  make 
game  with  them  as  usual.  But  he  could  only  kiss  his  hand  to 
them  and  escape,  for  there  was  more  to  do. 

He  took  the  squire  through  all  the  remaining  fever  cases  and 
into  several  of  the  worst  cottages— Milsom's  among  them— and 
when  it  was  all  over  they  emerged  into  the  lane  again,  near  the 
bridge.  There  was  still  a  crowd  of  children  and  women  hanging 
about,  watching  eagerly  for  the  squire,  whom  many  of  them  had 
never  seen  at  all,  and  ahout  whom  various  myths  had  gradually 
formed  themselves  in  the  country-side.  The  squire  walked  away 
from  them  hurriedly,  followed  by  Robert,  and  again  they  halted 
on  the  center  of  the  bridge.  A  horse  led  by  a  groom  was  being 
walked  up  and  down  on  a  flat  piece  of  road  just  beyond. 

It  was  an  awkward  moment.  Robert  never  forgot  the  thriU 
of  it,  or  the  association  of  wintery  sunshine  streaming  down 
upon  a  sparkhng  world  of  ice  and  delicate  woodland  and  foam 
flecked  river. 

The  squire  turned  toward  him  irresolutely  ;  his  sharply  cut, 
wrinkled  lips  opening  and  closing  again.  Then  he  held  out  his 
hand:  Mr.  Elsmere,  I  did  you  a  wrong— I  did  this  place  and 
its  people  a  wrong.  In  my  view,  regret  for  the  past  is  useless. 
Much  of  what  has  occurred  here  is  plainly  irreparable;  I  wiU 
think  what  can  be  done  for  the  future.  As  for  my  relation  to 
you,  it  rests  with  you  to  say  whether  it  can  he  amended.  I 
recognize  that  you  have  just  cause  of  complaint." 

What'invincible  pride  there  was  in  the  man's  very  surrender  I 
But  Elsmere  was  not  repelled  by  it.  He  knew  that  in  their 
hour  together  the  squire  had  felt  His  soul  had  lost  its  bitter- 
ness.  The  dead  and  their  wrong  were  with  God, 


346 


EGBERT  ELSMERE. 


He  took  the  squire's  outstretched  hand,  grasping  it  cordially, 
a  pure,  unworldly  dignity  in  his  whole  look  and  bearing. 

Lefc  us  be  friends,  Mr.  Wendover.  It  will  be  a  great  com- 
fort to  us— my  wife  and  me.  Will  you  remember  us  both  very 
kindly  to  Mr.  Darcy?" 

Commonplace  words,  but  words  that  made  an  epoch  in  the 
Life  of  both.  In  another  minute  the  squire,  on  horseback,  was 
trotting  along  the  side  road  leading  to  the  Hall,  and  Eobert 
was  speeding  home  to  Catherine  as  fast  as  his  long  legs  could 
carry  him. 

She  was  waiting  for  him  on  the  steps,  shading  her  eyes 
against  the  unwonted  sun.  He  kissed  her  with  the  spirits  of  a 
boy  and  told  her  all  his  news. 

Catherine  listened  bewildered,  not  knowing  what  to  say  or 
120W  all  at  once  to  forgive,  to  join  Robert  in  forgetting.  But 
that  strange  spiritual  glow  about  him  was  not  to  be  withstood. 
She  threw  her  arms  about  him  at  last  with  a  half  sob : 

' '  Oh,  Eobert-yes !   Dear  Eobert— thank  God  I" 
Never  think  any  more,"  he  said  at  last,  leading  her  in  from 
the  Httle  hall,*'  of  what  has  been,  only  of  what  shall  be!  Oh, 
Catherine,  give  me  some  tea;  and  never  did  I  see  anything  so 
tempting  as  that  arm-chair."  ^ 

He  sunk  down  into  it,  and  when  she  put  his  breakfast  beside 
him  she  saw  with  a  start  that  he  was  fast  asleep.  The  wife 
st<sod  and  watched  him,  the  signs  of  fatigue  round  eyes  and 
mouth,  the  placid  expression,  and  her  face  was  soft  with  ten- 
derness and  joy.  ^'  Of  course — of  coiu^se,  even  that  hard  man 
must  love  him.    Who  could  help  it?   My  Robert !" 

And  so  now  in  this  disguise,  now  in  that,  the  supreme  hour 
of  Catherine's  Hfe  stole  on  and  on  toward  her. 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

As  may  be  imagined,  the  Churton  Advertiser"  did  not  find 
its  way  to  Mure  well.  Ifc  was  certainly  no  pressure  of  social 
disapproval  that  made  the  squire  go  down  to  Mile  End  in  that 
winter's  dawn.  The  county  might  talk,  or  the  local  press  might 
harangue  till  doomsday,  and  Mr.  Wendover  would  either  know 
nothing  or  care  less. 

Still  his  interview  with  Meyrick  in  the  park  after  his  return 
from  a  week  in  town,  whither  he  had  gone  to  see  some  old  Ber-  . 
lin  friends,  had  been  a  shock  to  him.   A  man  may  play  the 


ROBERT  ELSMERB. 


347 


intelligent  recluse,  may  refuse  to  fit  his  life  to  his  neighbors' 
notions  as  much  as  he  please,  and  still  find  death,  especially 
death  for  which  he  has  some  responsibility,  as  disturbing  a  fact 
as  the  rest  of  us. 

He  went  home  in  much  irritable  discomfort.  It  seemed  to 
him  probably  that  f ortime  need  not  have  been  so  eager  to  put 
him  in  the  wrong.  To  relieve  his  mind  he  sent  for  Henslowe, 
and  in  an  interview,  the  memory  of  which  sent  a  shiver  through 
the  agent  to  the  end  of  his  days,  he  let  it  be  seen  that  though  it 
did  not  for  the  moment  suit  him  to  dismiss  the  man  who  had 
brought  this  upon  him,  that^an's  reign  in  any  true  sense  was 
over. 

But  afterward  the  squire  was  still  restless.  What  was  astir 
in  him  was  not  so  much  pity  or  remorse  as  certain  instincts  of 
race  which  still  survived  under  the  strange  superstructure  of 
manners  he  had  built  upon  them.  It  may  be  the  part  of  a  gen- 
tleman and  a  scholar  to  let  the  agent  whom  you  have  inter- 
posed between  yourself  and  a  boorish  peasantry  have  a  free 
hand;  but,  after  all,  the  estate  is  yours,  and  to  expose  the  rec- 
tor of  the  parish  to  all  sorts  of  avoidable  risks  in  the  pursuit  of 
his  official  duty  by  reason  of  the  gratuitous  filth  of  your  prop- 
erty, is  an  act  of  doubtful  breeding.  The  squire  in  his  most 
rough-and-tumble  days  at  Berlin  had  always  felt  himself  the 
grandee  as  well  as  the  student.  He  abhorred  sentimentalism, 
but  neither  did  he  choose  to  cut  an  unseemly  figure  in  his  own 
eyes. 

After  a  night,  therefore,  less  tranquil  or  less  meditative  than 
usual,  he  rose  early  and  saUied  forth  at  one  of  those  unusual 
hours  he  generally  chose  for  walking.  The  thing  must  be  put 
right  somehow,  and  at  once,  with  as  little  waste  of  time  and 
energy  as  possible,  and  Henslowe  had  shown  himself  not  to  be 
trusted ;  so  telling  a  servant  to  follow  him,  the  squire  had  made 
his  way  with  difficulty  to  a  place  he  had  not  seen  for  years. 

Then  had  followed  the  unexpected  and  unwelcome  apparition 
of  the  rector.  The  squire  did  not  want  to  be  impressed  by  the 
young  man,  did  not  want  to  make  friends  with  him.  No  doubt 
his  devotion  had  served  his  own  purposes.  Still  Mr.  Wendover 
was  one  of  the  subtlest  living  judges  of  character  when  he 
pleased,  and  his  enforced  progress  through  these  hovels  with 
JElsmere  had  not  exactly  softened  him,  but  had  filled  him  with 
a  curious  contempt  for  his  own  hastiness  of  judgment. 

History  would  be  inexplicable,  after  all,  without  the  honest 


348 


ROBERT  KLSMEEE. 


fanatic,"  he  said  to  himself  on  the  way  home.  ^'I  suppose  I 
had  forgotten  it.  There  is  nothing  Hke  a  dread  of  being  bored 
for  blunting  your  psychological  instinct." 

In  the  course  of  the  day  he  sent  off  a  letter  to  the  rector,  in- 
timating in  the  very  briefest,  driest  way  that  the  cottages 
should  be  rebuilt  on  a  different  site  as  soon  as  possible,  and  in- 
closing a  hberal  contribution  toward  the  i^xpenses  incurred  in 
fighting  the  epidemic.  When  the  letter  was  gone  he  drew  his 
books  toward  him  with  a  sound  which  was  partly  disgust, 
partly  relief.  This  annoying  business  had  wretchedly  inter- 
rupted him,  and  his  concessions  left  him  mainly  conscious  of  a 
strong  nervous  distaste  for  the  idea  of  any  fresh  interview  with 
young  Elsmere.  He  had  got  his  money  and  his  apology ;  let 
him  be  content. 

However,  next  morning  after  breakfast  Mr.  Wendover  once 
more  saw  his  study  door  open  to  admit  the  tall  figure  of  the 
rector.  The  note  and  check  had  reached  Eobert  late  the  night 
before,  and,  true  to  his  new-born  determination  to  make  the 
best  of  the  squire,  he  had  caught  up  his  wide-awake  at  the  fii-st 
opportunity  and  walked  off  to  the  Hall  to  acknowledge  the  gift 
in  person.  The  interview  opened  as  awkwardly  as  it  was  pos- 
sible, and  with  their  former  conversation  on  the  same  spot 
fresh  in  their  minds,  both  men  spent  a  sufficiently  difficult  ten 
minutes.  The  squire  was  asking  himself,  indeed,  impatiently,  ail 
the  time,  whether  he  could  possibly  be  forced  in  the  future  to  put 
up  with  such  an  experience  again,  and  Eobert  f  oimd  his  host,  if 
less  sarcastic  than  before,  certainly  as  impenetrable  as  ever. 

At  last,  however,  the  Mile  End  matter  was  exhausted,  and 
then  Robert,  as  good  luck  would  have  it,  turned  his  longing 
eyes  on  the  squire's  books,  especially  on  the  latest  volumes  of 
a  magnificent  German  ' '  Weltgeschichte  "  lying  near  his  elbow, 
which  he  had  coveted  for  months  without  being  able  to  con- 
quer his  conscience  sufficiently  to  become  the  possessor  of  it. 
He  took  it  up  with  an  exclamation  of  delight,  and  a  quiet  criti- 
cal remark  that  exactly  hit  the  value  and  scope  of  the  book. 
The  squire's  eyebrows  went  up,  and  the  corners  of  his  mouth 
slackened  visibly.  Half  an  hour  later  the  two  men,  to  the  amaze- 
ment of  Mrs.  Darcy,  who  was  watching  them  from  the  draw- 
ing-room window,  walked  back  to  the  park  gates  together,  and 
what  Robert's  nobility  and  beauty  of  character  would  never 
have  won  him,  though  he  had  worn  himself  to  death  in  the 
servicQ  of  the  poor  and  the  tormented  under  the  squire's  eyes, 


^OBEET  ELSMEKJD. 


340 


a  chance  coincidence  of  intellectual  interest  had  won  him 
almost  in  a  moment. 

The  squire  walked  back  to  the  house  under  a  threatening 
sky,  his  mackintosh  cloak  wrapped  about  him,  his  arms  folded, 
his  mind  full  of  an  unwonted  excitement. 

The  sentiment  of  long-past  days— days  in  Berlin,  in  Paris, 
where  conversations  such  as  that  he  had  just  passed  through 
were  the  daily  relief  and  reward -of  labor— was  stirring  in  him. 
Occasionally  he  had  endeavored  to  import  the  materials  for 
them  from  the  Continent,  from  London.  But  as  a  matter  of 
fact  it  was  years  since  he  had  had  any  such  talk  as  this  with 
an  Englishman  on  EngUsh  ground,  and  he  suddenly  realized 
that  he  had  been  unwholesomely  solitary,  and  that  for  the 
scholar  there  is  no  nerve  stimulus  like  that  of  an  occasional 
interchange  of  ideas  with  some  one  acquainted  with  his  Fach, 
Who  would  ever  have  thought  of  discovering  instincts  and 
aptitudes  of  such  a  kind  in  this  long-legged  optimist?"  The 
squire  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  he  thought  of  the  attempt  in- 
volved in  such  a  personality  to  combine  both  worlds,  the  world 
of  action  and  the  world  of  thought.  Absurd!  Of  course, 
ultimately  one  or  other  must  go  to  the  wall. 

Meanwhile,  what  ludicrous  waste  of  time  and  opportunity 
that  he  and  this  man  should  have  been  at  cross-purposes  hke 
this.  Why  the  deuce  couldn't  he  have  given  some  rational 
*  account  of  himself  to  begin  with !"  thought  the  squire,  irritably, 
forgetting,  of  course,  who  it  was  that  had  wholly  denied  him 
the  opportunity.  And  then  the  sending  back  of  those  books ; 
what  a  piece  of  idiocy !" 

Granted  an  historical  taste  in  this  young  parson,  it  was  a 
curious  chance,  Mr.  Wendover  reflected,  that  in  his  choice  of 
a  subject  he  should  just  have  fallen  on  the  period  of  the  later 
empire — of  the  passage  from  the  old  world  to  the  new,  where 
the  squire  was  a  master.  The  squire  felL  to  thinking  of  the 
kind  of  knowledge  implied  in  his  remarks,  of  the  stage  he 
seemed  to  have  reached,  and  then  to  cogitating  as  to  the  books 
he  must  be  now  in  want  of.  He  went  back  to  his  library,  ran 
over  the  shelves,  picking  out  volumes  here  and  there  with  an 
unwonted  glow  and  interest  all  the  while.  He  sent  for  a  case, 
and  made  a  youth  who  sometimes  acted  as  his  secretary  pack 
them.  And  still  as  he  went  back  to  his  own  work  new  names 
would  occur  to  him,  and  full  of  the  scholar's  avaricious  sense 
of  the  shortness  of  time,  he  would  shake  his  head  and  frown 


850 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


over  the  three  months  which  young  Elsmere  had  already- 
passed,  grappHng  with  problems  like  Teutonic  Arianism,  the 
spread  of  Monasticism  in  Gaul,  and  Heaven  knows  what  be- 
sides, half  a  mile  from  the  man  and  the  library  which  could 
have  supplied  him  with  the  best  help  to  be  got  in  England,  un- 
benefited  by  either !  Mile  End  was  obhterated,  and  the  annoy- 
ance of  the  morning  forgotten. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  a  wet  January  Sunday,  raw  and 
sleety,  the  frost  breaking  up  on  all  sides  and  flooding  the  roads 
with  mire. 

Kobert,  rising  in  his  place  to  begin  morning  service,  and 
wondering  to  see  the  congregation  so  good  on  suf^h  a  day,  was 
Buddenly  startled,  as  his  eye  traveled  mechanically  over  to  the 
Hall  pew,  usually  tenanted  by  Mrs.  Darcy  in  solitary  state,  to 
see  the  characteristic  figure  of  the  squire.  His  amazement  was 
so  great  that  he  almost  stumbled  in  the  exhortation,  and  his 
feehng  was  evidently  shared  by  the  congregation,  which 
throughout  the  service  showed  a  restlessness,  and  excited  tend- 
ency to  peer  round  corners  and  pillars  that  was  not  favorable 
to  devotion. 

Has  he  come  to  spy  out  the  land?"  the  rector  thought  to 
himself,  and  could  not  help  a  momentary  tremor  at  the  idea  of 
preaching  before  so  formidabje*'^  auditor.  Then  he  pulled 
himself  together  by  a  great  effort,  and  fixing  his  eyes  on  a 
shock-headed  urchin  half-way  down  the  church,  read  the  serv- 
ice to  him.  Catherine,  meanwhile,  in  her  seat  on  the  northern 
side  of  the  nave,  her  soul  lulled  in  Sunday  peace,  knew  noth- 
ing of  Mr.  Wendover's  appearance. 

Robert  preached  on  the  first  sermon  of  Jesus,  on  the  first 
appearance  of  the  young  Master  in  the  synagogue  at  Nazareth: 
This  day  is  this  scripture  fulfilled  in  your  ears 

The  sermon  dwelt  on  the  Messianic  aspect  of  Christ's  mission, 
on  the  mystery  and  poetry  of  that  long  national  expectation, 
on  the  pathos  of  Jewish  disillusion,  on  the  sureness  and  beauty 
of  Christian  insight  as  faith  gradually  transferred  trait  after 
trait  of  the  Messiah  of  prophecy  to  the  Christ  of  Nazareth.  At 
first  there  was  a  certain  amount  of  hesitation,  a  sHght  waver- 
ing hither  and  thither— a  difficult  choice  of  words— and  tRen 
the  soul  freed  itself  from  man,  and  the  preacher  forgot  all  but 
his  Master  and  His  people. 

At  the  door  as  he  came  out  stood  Mr.  Wendover,  and  Cath 
erine,  slightly  flushed  and  much  puzzled  for  conversation,  be- 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


ride  him.  The  Hall  carriage  was  drawn  close  up  to  the  door, 
and  Mrs.  Darcy,  evidently  much  excited,  had  her  small  head 
out  of  the  window,  and  was  showering  a  number  of  flighty  in- 
quiries and  suggestions  on  her  brother,  to  which  he  paid  no 
more  heed  than  to  the  patter  of  the  rain. 

When  Robert  appeared  the  squire  addressed  him,  ceremoni- 
ously: 

"  With  your  leave,  Mr.  Elsmere,  I  will  walk  with  you  to  the 
rectory."  Then,  in  another  voice:  ''Go  home,  Letitia,  and 
don't  send  anything  or  anybody." 

He  made  a  signal  to  the  coachman,  and  the  carriage  fstarted, 
Mrs.  Darcy 's  protesting  head  remaining  out  of  the  window  as 
long  as  anything  could  be  seen  of  the  group  at  the  church  door. 
The  odd  little  creature  had  paid  one  or  two  hurried  and  recent 
visits  to  Catherine  during  the  quarrel,  visits  so  filled,  however, 
with  vague  raihng  against  her  brother  and  by  a  queer  inco- 
herent melancholy,  that  Catherine  felt  them  extremely  un- 
comfortable, and  took  care  not  to  invite  them.  Clearly  she 
was  mortally  afraid  of  Roger,  "and  yet  ushamed  of  being 
afraid.  Catherine  could  see  that  all  the  poor  thing's  foolish 
whims  and  affectations  were  trampled  on ;  that  she  suffered, 
rebelled,  found  herself  no  more  able  to  affect  Mr.  Wendover 
than  if  she  had  been  a  fly  buzzing  round  him,  and  became  all 
the  more  foolish  and  whimsical  in  consequence. 

The  squire  and  the  Elsmeres  crossed  the  common  to  the  rec- 
tory, followed  at  a  discreet  interval  by  groups  of  villagers  cur- 
ious to  get  a  look  at  the  squire.  Robert  was  conscious  of  a 
good  deal  of  embarrassment,  but  did  his  best  to  hide  it.  Cath- 
erine felt  all  through  as  if  the  skies  had  fallen.  The  squire 
alone  was  at  his  ease,  or  as  much  at  his  ease  as  he  ever  was. 
He  commented  on  the  congregation,  even  condescended  to  say 
something  of  the  singing,  and  passed  over  the  staring  of  the 
choristers  with  a  magnanimity  of  silence  which  did  him  credit. 

They  reached  the  rectory  door,  and  it  was  evidently  the 
squire's  purpose  to  come  in,  so  Robert  invited  him  in.  Cath- 
erine threw  open  her  little  drawing-room  door,  and  then  was 
seized  with  shyness  as  the  squire  passed  in,  and  she  saw  over 
his  shoulder  her  baby,  lying  kicking  and  crowing  on  the  hearth- 
rug, in  anticipation  of  her  arrival,  the  nurse  watching  it.  The 
squire  in  his  great  cloak  stopped,  and  looked  down  at  the  baby 
as  if  it  had  been  some  curious  kind  of  reptile.   The  nurso 


352 


ROBERT  EI.SMERE. 


blushed,  coiirtesied,  and  caught  up  the  gurgling  creature  in  a 
twinkling. 

Robert  made  a  laughing  remark  on  the  tyranny  and  ubiquity 
of  babies.  The  squire  smiied  grimly.  He  supposed  it  was 
necessary  that  the  human  race  should  be  carried  on.  Cather- 
ine meanwhile  slipped  out  and  ordered  another  place  to  be  laid 
at  the  dinner-table,  devoutly  hoping  that  it  might  not  be  used. 

It  was  used.  The  squire  stayed  till  it  was  necessary  to  invite 
him,  then  accepted  the  invitation,  and  Catherine  found  herself 
dispensing  boiled  mutton  to  him,  while  Robert  supplied  him 
with  some  very  modest  claret,  the  sort  of  wine  which  a  man 
who  drinks  none  thinks  it  necessary  to  have  in  the  house,  and 
watched  the  nervousness  of  their  little  parlor-maid  with  a  fel- 
low-feeling which  made  it  difficult  for  him  during  the  early 
part  of  the  meal  to  keep  a  perfectly  straight  countenance. 
After  awhile,  however,  both  he  and  Catherine  were  ready  to 
admit  that  the  squire  was  making  himself  agreeable.  He 
talked  of  Paris,  of  a  conversation  he  had  had  with  M.  Renan, 
whose  name  luckily  was  quite  unknown  to  Catherine,  as  to  the 
state  of  things  in  the  French  Chamber. 

"A  set  of  chemists  and  quill-drivers,"  he  said,  contemptu- 
ously; '*but  as  Renan  remarked  to  me,  there  is  one  thing  to 
be  said  for  a  government  of  that  sort:  \Ils  ne  font  pas  la 
guerre. '  And  so  long  as  they  don't  run  France  into  ad  ventures, 
and  a  man  can  keep  a  roof  over  his  head  and  a  sou  in  his  pocket, 
the  men  of  letters  at  any  rate  can  rub  along.  The  really  in- 
teresting thing  in  France  just  now  is  not  French  politics- 
Heaven  save  the  mark !— but  French  scholarship.  There  never 
was  so  little  original  genius  going  in  Paris,  and  there  never 
was  so  much  good  work  being  done." 

Robert  thought  the  point  of  view  eminently  characteristic. 
Catholicism,  I  suppose,"  he  said,    as  a  force  to  be  reckv 
oned  with,  is  dwindling  more  and  more  ?" 

Absolutely  dead,"  said  the  squire,  emphatically,  '*as  an 
intellectual  force.  They  haven't  got  a  writer,  scarcely  a  preach- 
er. Not  one  decent  book  has  been  produced  on  that  side  for 
years." 

And  the  Protestants,  too,"  said  Robert,  ''have  lost  all  theii 
best  men  of  late,"  and  he  mentioned  one  or  two  well-known 
French  Protestant  names. 

*'0h,  as  to  French  Protestantism  "—and  the  squire's  sara^ 
was  superb— *'  Teutonic  Protestantism  is  in  the  order  of  things^ 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


353 


SO  to  speak,  but  Latin  Protestantism !  There  is  no  more  sterile 
hybrid  in  the  world !" 

Then,  becoming  suddenly  aware  that  he  might  have  said 
something  inconsistent  with  his  company,  the  squire  stopped 
abruptly.  Robert,  catching  Catherine's  quick  compression  of 
the  lips,  was  grateful  to  him,  and  the  conversation  moved  on 
in  another  direction. 

Yes,  certainly,  all  things  considered,  Mr.  Wendover  made 
himself  agreeable.  He  ate  his  boiled  mutton  ani  drank  his 
orddnaire  like  a  man,  and  when  the  meal  was  over,  and  he  and 
Robert  had  withdrawn  into  the  study,  he  gave  an  emphatic 
word  of  praise  to  the  coffee  which  Catherine's  housewifely  care 
sent  after  them,  and  accepting  a  cigar,  he  sunk  into  the  arm- 
chair by  the  fire  and  spread  a  bony  hand  to  the  blaze,  as  if  he 
had  been  at  home  in  that  particular  corner  for  mon;ths,  Rob- 
ert, sitting  opposite  to  him,  and  watching  his  guest's  eyes 
travel  round  the  room,  with  its  medicine  shelves,  its  rods  and 
nets,  and  preparations  of  uncanny  beasts,  its  parish  litter,  and 
its  teeming  book-cases,  felt  that  the  Mile  End  matter  was  turn- 
ing out  oddly  indeed. 

''I  have  packed  you  a  case  of  books,  Mr.  Elsmere," said  the 
squire,  after  a  puif  or  two  at  his  cigar.  How  have  you  got 
on  without  that  collection  of  Councils?" 

He  smiled  a  little  awkwardly.  It  was  one  of  the  books  Rob- 
ert had  sent  back.  Robert  flushed.  He  did  not  want  the 
squire  to  regard  him  as  wholly  dependent  on  Murewell. 

I  bought  it,'*  he  said,  rather  shortly.  have  ruined  my- 
self in  books  lately,  and  the  London  Library  supplies  me  really 
wonderfully  well." 

Are  these  your  books?"   The  squire  got  up  to  look  at  them. 

Hum,  not  at  all  bad  for  a  beginning.  I  have  sent  you  so  and 
10,"  and  he  named  one  or  two  costly  folios  that  Robert  had 
long  pined  for  in  vain. 

The  rector's  eyes  glistened. 
That  was  very  good  of  you,"  he  said,  simply.    **They  will 
be  most  welcome." 

^'  And  now,  how  much  fme,"  said  the  other,  settling  himself 
again  to  his  cigar,  his  thin  legs  crossed  over  each  other,  and  his 
great  head  sunk  into  his  shoulders,  how  much  time  do  you 
give  to  this  work?'-' 

Generally  the  mornings— not  always.  A  man  with  twelve 
hundred  souls  to  look  after,  you  know,  Mr.  Wendover,"  said 


354 


EGBERT  ELSMERB. 


Elsmere,  with  a  bright,  half-defiant  accent,  '^cati't  mak^ 
grubbing  among  the  Franks  his  main  business. 

The  squire  said  nothing,  and  smoked  on.  Eobert  gathered 
that  his  companion  thought  his  chances  of  doing  anything 
worth  mentioning  very  small.  . 

Oh,  no/'  he  said,  following  out  his  own  thought  with  a 
shake  of  his  curly  hair;  ''of  course  I  shall  never  do  very 
much.  But  if  I  don't,  it  won't  be  for  want  of  knowing  what 
the  scholar's  ideal  is."  And  he  lifted  his  hand  with  a  smile 
toward  the  squire's  book  on  English  Culture,"  which  stood 
in  the  book-case  just  above  him.  The  squire,  following  the 
gesture,  smiled  too.  It  was  a  faint,  slight  illumining,  but  it 
changed  the  face  agreeably.    ^  ^ 

Eobert  began  to  ask  questions  about  the  book,  about  the 
pictures  contained  in  it  of  foreign  life  and  foreign  universities. 
The  squire  consented  to  be  drawn  out,  and  presently  was  talk- 
ing at  his  very  best. 

Racy  stories  of  Mommsen  or  Yon  Ranke  were  followed  by  a 
description  of  an  evening  of  mad  carouse  with  Heine— a  talk 
at  Nohant  with  George  Sand— scenes  in  the  Duchesse  de  Brog^ 
lie's  salon— a  contemptuous  sketch  of  Guizot— a  caustic  sketch 
of  Renan.  Robert  presently  even  laid  aside  his  pipe,  and 
stood  in  his  favorite  attitude,  lounging  against  the  mantel- 
piece, looking  down,  absorbed,  on  his  visitor.  All  that  intel- 
icctual  passion  which  his  struggle  at  Mile  End  had  for  a  mo- 
ment checked  in  him  revived.  Nay,  after  his  weeks  of  exclu- 
sive contact  with  the  most  hideous  forms  of  bodily  ill,  this  in- 
terruption, these  great  names,  this  talk  of  great  movements 
and  great  causes,  had  a  special  savor  and  relish.  All  the  hori- 
zons of  the  mind  expanded,  the  currents  of  the  blood  ran 
quicker. 

Suddenly,  however,  he  sprung  up. 
I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Wendover,  it  is  too  bad  to  inter- 
rupt you— I  have  enjoyed  it  immensely— but  the  fact  is  I  have 
only  two  minutes  to  get  to  Simday-school  in !" 
_  Mr.  Wendover  rose  also,  and  resumed  his  ordinary  manner. 
^  It  is  I  who  should  apologize,"  he  said  with  stiff  politeness, 
**for  having  encroached  in  this  way  on  your  busy  day,  Mr. 
Elsmere." 

Robert  helped  him  on  with  his  coat,  and  then  suddenly  the 
squire  turned  to  him. 

**You  were  preaching  this  morning  on  one  of  the  Isaiah 


KOBERT  ELSMERB. 


355 


I:    quotations  in  St.  Matthew.   It  would  interest  you,  I  imagine, 
I    to  see  a  recent  Jewish  book  on  the  subject  of  the  prophecies 
L    quoted  in  the  Gospels  which  reached  me  yesterday.   There  is 
nothing  particularly  new  in  it,  but  it  looked  to  me  well  done." 

''Thank  you,"  said  Robert,  not,  however,  with  any  great 
heartiness,  and  the  squire  moved  away.  They  parted  at  the 
gate,  Robert  running  down  the  hill  to  the  village  as  fast  as  his 
long  legs  could  carry  him. 

"  Sunday-school— pshaw !"  cried  the  squire,  as  he  tramped 
homeward  in  the  opposite  direction. 

Next  morning  a  huge  packing-case  arrived  from  the  Hall, 
and  Robert  could  not  forbear  a  little  gloating  over  the  treas- 
ures in  it  before  he  tore  himself  away  to  pay  his  morning  visit 
to  'Mile  End.  There  everything  was  improving;  the  poor 
Sharland  child  indeed  had  slipped  away  on  the  night  after  the 
squire's  visit,  but  the  other  bad  cases  in  the  diphtheria  ward 
were  mending  fast.  John  Allwood  was  gaining  strength  daily, 
and  poor  Mary  Sharland  was  feebly  struggling  back  to  a  life 
which  seemed  hardly  worth  so  much  effort  to  keep.  Robert 
felt,  with  a  welcome  sense  of  slackening  strain,  that  the  daily 
and  hourly  superintendence  which  he  and  Catherine  had  been 
giving  to  the  place  might  lawfully  be  relaxed,  that  the  nurses 
c.i  the  spot  were  now  more  than  equal  to  their  task,  and  after 
having  made  his  round  he  raced  home  again  in  order  to  secure 
an  hour  with  his  books  before  luncheon. 

The  following  day  a  note  arrived,  while  they  were  at  lunch- 
eon, in  the  squire's  angular  precise  handwriting.   It  contained 
a  request  that,  unless  otherwise  engaged,  the  rector  would 
walk  with  Mr.  Wendover  that  afternoon. 
Robert  flung  it  across  to  Catherine. 

''Let  me  see,"  he  said,  deliberating,  "have  I  any  engage- 
ment I  must  keep?" 

There  was  a  sort  of  jealousy  for  his  work  within  him  con- 
tending with  this  new  fascination  of  the  squire's  company. 
But,  honestly,  there  was  nothing  in  the  way,  and  he  went. 

That  walk  was  the  first  of  many.  The  squire  had  no  sooner 
convinced  himself  that  young  Elsmere's  society  did  in  reality 
provide  him  with  a  stimulus  and  recreation  he  had  been  too 
long  without,  than  in  his  imperious,  willful  way  he  began  to 
possess  himself  of  it  as  much  as  possible.  He  never  alluded  ta 
the  trivial  matters  which  had  first  separated  and  then  united 
them.   He  worked  the  better,  he  thought  the  more  clearly,  for 


I 


356 


BOBERT  ELSMEBE. 


these  talks  and  walks  with  Elsmere,  and  therefore  these  talks 
and  walks  became  an  object  with  him.  They  supphed  a  long- 
stifled  want,  the  scholar's  want  of  disciples,  of  some  form  of 
investment  for  aU  that  heaped-up  capital  of  thought  he  had 
been  accumulating  during  a  life-time. 

As  for  Robert,  he  soon  felt  himself  so  much  under  the  spell 
of  the  squire's  strange  and  powerful  personahty  that  he  was 
forced  to  make  a  fight  for  it,  lest  this  new  claim  should  en- 
croach upon  the  old  ones.  He  would  v/alk  when  the  squire 
liked,  but  three  times  out  of  four  these  walks  must  be  parish 
rounds,  interrupted  by  descents  into  cottages  and  chats  in 
farm-house  parlors.  The  squire  submitted.  The  neighborhood 
began  to  wonder  over  the  strange  spectacle  of  Mr.  Wendover 
waiting  grimly  in  the  winter  dusk  outside  one  of  his  own  farm- 
houses while  Elsmere  was  inside,  or  patroling  a  bit  of  lane  till 
Elsmere  should  have  inquired  after  an  invalid  or  beaten  up  a 
recruit  for  his  confirmation  class,  dogged  the  while  by  stealthy 
children,  with  fingers  in  their  mouths,  who  ran  away  in  terror 
directly  he  turned. 

Rumors  of  this  new  friendship  spread.  One  day,  on  the  bit 
of  road  between  the  Hall  and  the  rectory,  Lady  Helen  behind 
her  ponies  whirled  past  the  two  men,  and  her  arch  look  at  Els- 
mere said,  as  plain  as  words:  Oh,  you  young  wonder!  what 
hook  has  served  you  with  this  leviathan?" 

On  another  occasion,  close  to  Churton,  a  mUn  in  a  cassock 
and  cloak  came  toward  them.   The  squire  put  up  his  eyeglass. 

''Humph!"  he  remarked;  do  you  know  this  merry- An- 
drew, Elsmere?" 

It  was  Newcome.  As  they  passed,  Robert,  with  slightly 
heightened  color,  gave  him  an  affectionate  nod  and  smile. 
Newcome's  quick  eye  ran  over  the  companions,  he  responded 
stiffly,  and  his  step  grew  more  rapid.  A  week  or  two  later 
Robert  noticed  a  little  prick  of  remorse  that  he  had  seen  noth- 
ing of  Newcome  for  an  age.  If  Newcome  would  not  come  to 
him,  he  must  go  to  Mottringham.  He  planned  an  expedition, 
but  something  happened  to  prevent  it. 

And  Cafcherine?  Naturally  this  new  and  most  unexpected  re- 
lation of  Robert's  to  the  man  who  had  begun  by  insulting  him 
was  of  considerable  importanr^e  to  the  wife.  In  the  first  place 
it  broke  up  to  some  extent  the  exquisite  tete-a-tete  of  their 
home  life;  it  encroached  often  upon  time  that  had  always  been 
hers;  it  filled  Robert's  mind  more  and  more  with  matters  in 


EGBERT  ELSMERE. 


35? 


wMcb  she  had  no  ©oneern.  All  these  things  many  wives  might 
have  resented.  Catherine  Elsmere  resented  none  of  them.  It 
m  probable,  of  course,  that  she  had  her  natural  moments  of  re- 
gret and  comparison,  when  love  said  to  itself  a  little  sorely  and 
hungrily :  ' '  It  is  hard  to  be  even  a  fraction  less  to  him  than  I 
once  was!"  But  if  so,  these  moments  never  betrayed  themselves 
in  word  or  act.  Her  tender  common  sense,  her  sweet  humility, 
made  her  recognize  at  once  Kobert's  need  of  intellectual  com- 
radeship, isolated  as  he  was  in  this  remote  rural  district.  She 
knew  perfectly  that  a  clergyman's  life  of  perpetual  giving 
forth  becomes  morbid  and  unhealthy  if  there  is  not  some  cor- 
responding taking  in. 

If  only  it  had  not  been  Mr.  Wendover !  She  marveled  over 
the  fascination  Eobert  found  in  his  dry,  cynical  talk.  She  won- 
dered that  a  Christian  pastor  could  ever  forget  Mr.  Wendover's 
antecedents ;  that  the  man  who  had  nursed  those  sick  children 
eoitld  forgive  Mile  End.  All  in  all  as  they  were  to  each  other, 
she  felt  for  the  first  time  that  she  often  understood  her  hus- 
band imperfectly.  His  mobility,  his  eagerness,  were  sometimes 
now  a  perplexity,  even  a  pain  to  her. 

It  must  nob  be  imagined,  however,  that  Eobert  let  himself 
drift  into  this  intellectual  intimacy  with  one  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished of  anti-Christian  thinkers  without  reflecting  on  its 
possible  consequences.  The  memory  of  that  night  of  misery 
which  '^The  Idols  of  the  Market-place  "  had  inflicted  on  him 
was  enough.  He  was  no  match  in  controversy  for  Mr.  Wend- 
over, and  he  did  not  mean  to  attempt  it. 

One  morning  the  squire  unexpectedly  plunged  into  an  ac- 
count of  a  German  monograph  he  had  just  received  on  the  sub- 
ject of  the  Johannine  authorship  of  the  Fourth  Gospel.  It  was 
almost  the  first  occasion  on  which  he  had -touched  what  may 
strictly  be  called  the  materiel  of  orthodoxy  in  their  discussions 
— ^at  any  rate  directly.  But  the  book  was  a  striking  one,  and 
in  the  interest  of  it  he  had  clearly  forgotten  his  ground  ^nd  a 
little.  Suddenly  the  man  who  was  walking  beside  him  inter- 
tupted  him. 

I  think  we  ought  to  understand  one  another  perhaps,  Mr. 
Wendover,"  Robert  said,  speaking  under  a  quick  sense  of  op- 
pression, but  with  his  usual  dignity  and  bright  courtesy.  I 
know  your  opinions,  of  course,  from  your  books;  you  know 
what  mine,  as  an  honest  man,  must  be,  from  the  position  I 
hold.   My  conscience  does  not  forbid  me  to  discuss  an;vthing, 


358 


ROBERT  ELSMERK. 


only- 1  am  no  match  for  you  on  points  of  scholarship,  and  I 
should  just  hke  to  say  once  for  all,  that  to  me,  whatever  else  is 
true,  the  religion  of  Christ  is  true.  I  am  a  Christian  and  a 
Christian  minister.  Therefore,  whenever  we  come  to  discuss 
what  may  be  called  Christian  evidence,  I  do  it  with  reserves, 
which  you  would  not  have.  I  believe  in  an  Incarnation,  a 
Resurrection,  a  Revelation.  If  there  are  literary  difficulties,  I 
must  want  to  smooth  them  away— you  may  want  to  make 
much  of  them.  We  come  to  the  matter  from  different  points 
of  view.  You  will  not  quarrel  with  me  for  wanting  to  make 
it  clear.  It  isn't  as  if  we  differed  slightly.  We  differ  funda 
mentally— is  it  not  so?" 

The  squire  was  walking  beside  him  with  bent  shoulders,  the 
lower  lip  pushed  forward,  as  was  usual  with  him  when  he  was 
considering  a  matter  with  close  attention  but  did  not  mean  to 
communicate  his  thoughts. 

After  a  pause  he  said,  with  a  faint,  inscrutable  smile: 

''Your  reminder  is  perfectly  just.  Naturally  we  all  have 
our  reserves.   Neither  of  us  can  be  expected  to  stultify  his  own. 

And  the  talk  went  forward  again,  Robert  joining  in  more 
buoyantly  than  ever,  perhaps  because  he  had  achieved  a  neces- 
sary but  disagreeable  thing  and  got  done  with  it. 

In  reality  he  had  but  been  doing  as  the  child  does  when  it 
sets  up  its  sand- barrier  against  the  tide. 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  April.  The  gorse  was  fast  extending 
its  golden  empire  over  the  commons.  On  the  sunny  slopes  of 
the  copses  primroses  were  breaking  through  the  hazel  roots 
and  beginning  to  gleam  along  the  edges  of  the  river.  On  the 
grass  commons  between  Murewell  and  Mile  End  the  birches 
rose  like  green  clouds  against  the  browns  and  purples  of  the 
still  leafless  oaks  and  beeches.  The  birds  were  twittering  and 
building.  Every  day  Robert  was  on  the  lookout  for  the  swal- 
lows, or  listening  for  the  first  notes  of  the  nightingale  amid  the 
bare  spring  coverts. 

But  the  spring  was  less  perfectly  delightful  to  him  than  it 
might  have  been,  for  Catherine  was  away.  Mrs.  Leybum,  who 
was  to  have  come  south  to  them  in  February,  was  attacked  by 
bronchitis  instead  at  Burwood  and  forbidden  to  move,  even  to 
a  warmer  climate.   In  March,  Catherine,  feeling  restless  and 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


359 


anxious  about  her  mother,  and  thinking  it  hard  that  Agnes 
should  have  all  the  nursing  and  responsibility,  tore  herself 
from  her  man  and  her  baby,  and  went  north  to  Whindale  for 
a  fortnight,  leaving  Eobert  forlorn. 

Now,  however,  she  was  in  London,  whither  she  had  gone  for 
a  few  days  on  her  way  home,  to  meet  Eose  and  to  shop. 
Robert's  opinion  was  that  all  women,  even  St.  Elizabeths,  have 
somewhere  rooted  in  them  an  inordinate  partiality  for  shop- 
ping; otherwise  why  should  that  operation  take  four  or  five 
mortal  days?  Surely  with  a  little  energy,  one  might  buy  up 
the  whole  of  London  in  twelve  hours!  However,  Catherine 
lingered,  and  as  her  purchases  were  made,  Robert  crossly  sup- 
posed it  must  be  all  Rose's  fault.  He  behoved  that  Rose  spent 
a  great  deal  too  much  on  dress. 

Catherine's  letters,  of  course,  were  full  of  her  sister.  Rose, 
she  said,  had  come  back  from  Berlin  handsomer  than  ever,  and 
claying  she  supposed,  magnificently.  At  any  rate,  the  letters 
which  followed  her  in  shoals  from  Berlin  flattered  her  to  the 
skies,  and  during  the  three  months  preceding  her  return 
Joachim  himself  had  taken  hor  as  a  pupil  and  given  her  un- 
usual attention. 

''And  now',  of  course,"  wrote  Catherine,  ''she  is  desperately 
disappointed  that  mamma  and  Agnes  can  not  join  her  in  town, 
as  she  had  hoped.  She  does  her  best,  I  know,  poor  child,  to 
conceal  it  and  to  feel  as  she  ought  about  mamma,  but  I  can  see 
that  the  idea  of  an  indefinite  time  Burwood  is  intolerable  to 
her.  As  to  Berlin,  I  think  she  has  enjoyed  it,  but  she  talks 
very  scornfully  of  German  Schwdrmerei  and  German  womSn, 
and  she  tells  the  oddest  stories  of  her  professors.  With  one  or 
two  of  them  she  seems  to  have  been  in  a  ^tate  of  war  from  the 
beginning;  but  some  of  them,  my  dear  R-^bert,  I  am  persuaded 
were  just  simply  in  love  with  her!  I  don't— no,  I  never  shall 
believ^e,  that  independent,  exciting  student's  hfe  is  good  for  a 
girl.  But  I  never  say  so  to  Rose.  When  she  forgets  to  be  ir- 
ritable and  to  feel  that  the  world  is  going  against  her,  she  is 
often  very  sweet  to  me,  and  I  can't  bear  there  should  be  any 
conflict." 

His  next  day's  letter  contained  the  following : 
"  Are  you  properly  amused,  sir,  at  your  wife's  performances 
in  town?  Our  three  concerts  you  have  heard  all  about.  *  I  still 
can't  get  over  them.    I  go  about  haunted  by  the  seriousness, 
the  Ufe-and-death  interest  peoi^^^  ^hrow  into  mu^ic.   It  is  as- 


360 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


tonishing!  And ^  outside,  as  we  got  into  our  hansom,  sUch 
sights  and  sounds!  -such  starved,  fierce-looking  men,  such 
ghastly  women ! 

"But  since  then  Eose  has  been  taking  me  into  society.  Yes- 
terday afternoon,  after  I  wrote  to  you,  we  went  to  see  Rose's 
artistic  friends— the  Piersons— with  whom  she  was  staying  last 
summer,  and  to-day  we  have  even  called  on  Lady  Charlotte 
Wynnstay. 

As  to  Mrs.  Pierson,  I  never  saw  such  an  odd  bundle  of  rib- 
bons and  rags  and  queer  embroideries  as  she  looked  when  we 
called.  However,  Rose  says  that,  for  *an  aesthete '—she  de- 
spises them  now  hei^elf — Mrs.  Pierson  has  wonderful  taste, 
and  that  her  wall-papers  and  her  gowns,  if  I  only  understood 
them,  are  not  the  least  like  those  of  other  aesthetic  persons,  but 
very  recherche— may  be.  She  talked  to  Rose  of  nothing 
but  acting,  especially  of  Mme.  Desforets.  No  one,  according  to 
her,  has  anything  to  do  with  an  actress's  private  life,  or  ought 
to  take  it  into  account.  But,  Robert,  dear— an  actress  is  a 
woman,  and  has  a  soul ! 

*'Then  Lady  Charlotte— you  would  have  laughed  at  our 
entree. 

We  found  she  was  in  town,  and  went  on  her  *  day,'  as  she 
had  asked  Rose  to  do.  The  room  was  rather  dark— none  of 
these  London  rooms  seem  to  me  to  have  any  hght  and  air  in 
them.  The  butler  got  our  names  wrong,  and  I  marched  in 
first,  more  shy  than  I  ever  have  been  before  in  my  life.  Lady 
Chaxlotte  had  two  gentlemen  with  her.  She  evidently  did" not 
know  me  in  the  least ;  she  stood  staring  at  me  with  her  eyeglass 
on,  and  her  cap  so  crooked  I  could  think  of  nothing  but  a  wish 
to  put  it  straight.  Then  Rose  followed,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
it  seemed  to  me  as  though  it  were  Rose  who  were  hostess,  talk- 
ing to  the  two  gentlemen  and  being  kind  to  Lady  Charlotte.  I 
am  sure  everybody  in  the  room  was  amused  by  her  self-posses- 
sion. Lady  Charlotte  inclurled.  The  gentlemen  stared  at  her 
a  great  deal,  and  Lady  Charlotte  paid  her  one  or  two  compli- 
ments on  her  looks,  which  /  thought  she  would  not  have  vent- 
ured to  pay  to  any  one  in  her  own  circle. 

We  stayed  about  half  an  hour.  One  of  the  gentlemen  was, 
I  believe,  a  member  of  the  government,  an  under-secretary  for 
something,  but  he  and  Rose  and  Lady  Charlotte  talked  again 
of  nothing  but  musicians  and  actoi-s.  It  is  strango  that  poli- 
ticians should  have  t?'^f^  tQ  know  so  much  of  these  things.  The 


EGBERT  ELSMERE. 


361 


other  gentleman  reminded  me  of  Hotspur's  popinjay.  I  think 
now  I  made  out  that  he  wrote  for  the  newspapers,  hut  at  the 
moment  I  should  have  felt  it  insulting  to  accuse  liim  of  any- 
thing so  humdrimi  as  an  occupation  in  life.  He  discovered 
somehow  that  I  had  an  interest  in  the  Church,  and  he  asked 
me,  leaning  back  in  his  chair  and  lisping,  whether  I  really 
thought  'the  Church  could  still  totter  on  awhile  in  the  rural 
dithtricts.'  He  was  informed  her  condition  was  so  '  vewy 
dethperate.' 

Then  I  laughed  outright,  and  found  my  tongue.  Perhaps 
his  next  article  on  the  Church  will  have  a  few  facts  in  it.  I  did 
my  best  to  put  some  into  him.  Rose  at  last  looked  round  at 
me,  astonished.  But  he  did  not  dislike  me,  I  think.  I  was  not 
impertinent  to  him,  husband  mine.  If  I  might  have  described 
just  one  of  your  days  to  his  high-and-mightiness !  There  is  no 
need  to  tell  you,  I  think,  whether  I  did  or  not. 

''Then  when  we  got  up  to  go,  Lady  Charlotte  asked  Rose  to 
stay  with  her.  Rose  explained  why  she  couldn't  and  Lady 
Charlotte  pitied  her  dreadfully  for  having  a  family,  and  the  un- 
der-secretary  said  that  it  was  one's  first  duty  in  life  to  trample 
on  one's  relations,  and  that  he  hoped  nothing  would  prevent 
his  hearing  her  play  soms  time  later  in  the  year.  Rose  said 
very  decidedly  she  should  be  in  town  for  the  winter.  Lady 
Charlotte  said  she  would  have  an  evening  specially  for  her, 
and  as  I  said  nothing,  we  got  away  at  last." 

The  letter  of  the  following  day  recorded  a  little  adventure: 

' '  I  was  much  startled  this  morning.  I  had  got  Rose  to  come 
with  me  to  the  National  Gallery  on  our  way  to  her  dressmaker. 
We  were  standing  before  Raphael's  'Vigil  of  the  Knight,' 
when  suddenly  I  saw  Rose,  who  was  looking  away  toward  the 
door  into  the  long  gallery,  turn  perfectly  white.  I  followed  her 
eyes,  and  there,  in  the  door-way,  disappearing— I  am  almost 
certain— was  Mr.  Langham !  One  can  not  mistake  his  walk  or 
his  profile.  Before  I  could  say  a  word  Rose  had  walked  away 
to  another  wall  of  pictures,  and  when  we  joined  again  we  did 
not  speak  of  it.  Did  he  see  us,  I  wonder,  and  purposely  avoid 
us?  Something  made  me  think  so. 

''Oh,  I  wish  I  could  believe  she  had  forgotten  him!  lam 
certain  she  would  laugh  me  to  angry  scorn  if  I  mentioned  him; 
but  there  she  sits  by  the  fire  now,  while  I  am  writing,  quite 
drooping  and  pale,  because  she  thinks  I  am  not  noticing.  If 
J2e  did  but  love  me  a  little  more !  It  must  be  my  fault  I  know. 


862 


EGBERT  ELSMERE. 


Yes,  as  you  say,  Bur  wood  may  as  well  be  shut  up  or  let 
Riy  dear,  dear  father !" 

Eobert  could  imagine  the  sigh  with  which  Catherine  had  laid 
down  her  pen.  Dear  tender  soul,  with  all  its  old-world  fidehties 
and  pieties  pure  and  unimpaired !  He  raised  the  signature  to 
his  hps. 

Next  day  Catherine  came  back  to  him.  Robert  had  no  words 
too  opprobrious  for  the  widowed  condition  from  which  her  re- 
turn had  rescued  him.  It  seemed  to  Catherine,  however,  that 
life  had  been  very  full  and  keen  with  him  since  her  departure ! 
He  lingered  with  her  after  supper,  vowing  that  his  club  boys 
might  make  what  hay  in  the  study  they  pleased;  he  was  going 
to  tell  her  the  news,  whatever  happened. 

"  I  told  you  of  my  two  dinners  at  the  Hall?  The  first  was 
just  tete-a-tete  with  the  squire— oh,  and  Mrs.  Darcy,  of  course. 
I  am  always  forgetting  her,  poor  little  thing,  which  is  most  un- 
grateful rf  me.  A  pathetic  life  that,  Catherine.  She  seems  to 
me,  m  her  odd  way,  perpetually  hungering  for  affection,  for 
praise.  No  doubt,  if  she  got  them,  she  wouldn't  know  what 
to  do  with  them.  She  would  just  touch  and  leave  them  as  she 
does  every  thing.  Her  talk  and  she  are  both  as  light  and  wan- 
dering as  thistle-down.  But  still,  meanwhile,  she  hungers,  and 
is  never  satisfied.  There  seems  to  be  something  pecuharly  an- 
tipathetic in  her  to  the  squii^e.  I  can't  make  it  out.  He  is 
sometimes  quite  brutal  to  her  when  she  is  more  inconsequent 
than  usual.    I  often  wonder  slfe  goes  on  hving  with  him." 

Catherine  made  some  indignant  comment. 
Yes,"  said  Robert,  musing.    "  Yes,  it  is  bad." 

But  Catherine  thought  his  tone  might  have  been  more  im- 
qualified,  and  marveled  again  at  the  curious  lenity  of  r'r^dgment 
he  had  always  shown  of  late  toward  Mr.  Wendover.  And  all 
his  judgments  of  himself  and  others  were  generally  so  quick, 
so  uncompromising! 

'*0n  the  second  occasion  we  had  Freake  and  Dash  wood," 
naming  two  well  known  English  antiquarians.  *  *  Very  learned, 
very  jealous,  and  very  snuffy ;  altogether  *  too  genuine,'  as  poor 
mother  used  to  say  of  those  old  chairs  we  got  for  the  dining- 
room.  But  afterward,  when  we  were  all  smoking  in  the  library, 
the  squire  came  out  of  his  shell  and  talked.  I  never  heard 
him  more  brilliant !" 

He  paused  a  moment,  his  bright  eyes  looking  far  away  from 
her,  as  though  fixed  on  the  s(;en§ie  was  describing. 


BOBEET  ELSMERE. 


S63 


''Such  a  mind!"  he  said  at  last,  with  a  long  breath,  *'  such  a 
memory !  Catherine,  my  book  has  been  making  great  strides 
since  you  left.  With  Mr.  Wendover  to  go  to,  all  the  problems 
are  simplified.  One  is  saved  all  false  starts,  all  beating  about' 
the  bush.  What  a  piece  of  luck  it  was  that  put  one  down 
beside  such  a  guide,  such  a  living  store-house  of  knowledge !" 

He  spoke  in  a  glow  of  energy  and  enthusiasm.  Catherine 
eat  looking  at  him  wistfully,  her  gray  eyes  crossed  by  many 
varying  shades  of  memory  and  feeling. 

At  last  his  look  met  hers,  and  the  animation  of  it  softened  at 
once,  grew  gentle. 

''Do  you  think  I  am  making  knowledge  too  much  of  a  god 
just  now,  Madonna  mine?"  he  said,  throwing  himself  down 
beside  her.  "I  have  been  full  of  qualms  myself.  The  squire 
excites  one  so,  makes  one  feel  as  though  intellect— accumula- 
tion—were  the  whole  of  life.  But  I  struggle  against  it— I  do. 
I  go  on,  for  instance,  trying  to  make  the  squire  do  his  social 
duties— behave  like  /  a  human.' " 

Catherine  could  not  help  smiling  at  his  tona 

"  Well?"  she  inquired. 

He  shook  his  head  ruefully. 

"The  squire  is  a  tough  customer— most  men  of  sixty-seven 
with  strong  wills  are,  I  suppose.  At  any  rate,  he  is  like  one 
of  the  Thurston  trout— sees  through  all  my  maneuvers.  But 
one  piece  of  news  will  astonish  you,  Catherine!"  And  he 
sprung  up  to  deliver  it  with  effect.    "  Henslowe  is  dismissed." 

"Henslowe  dismissed!"  Catherine  sat  properly  amazed 
while  Eobert  told  the  story. 

The  dismissal  of  Henslowe  indeed  represented  the  price 
which  Mr.  Wendover  had  been  so  far  willing  to  pay  for  Els- 
mere's  socilty.  Some  quid  pro  quo  there  must  be— that  he  was 
prepared  to  admit— considering  their  relative  positions  as  squire 
and  parson.  But,  as  Eobert  shrewdly  suspected,  not  one  of 
his  wiles  so  far  had  imposed  on  the  master  of  Murewell.  He 
had  his  own  sarcastic  smiles  over  them,  and  over  Elsmere's 
pastoral  naivete  in  general.  The  evidences  of  the  young  rec- 
tor's power  and  popularity  were,  however,  on  the  whole,  pleas- 
ant to  Mr.  Wendover.  If  Elsmere  had  his  will  wtth  all  the 
rest  of  the  world,  Mr.  Wendover  knew  perfectly  well  who  it 
was  that  at  the  present  moment  had  his  will  with  Elsmere.  He 
had  found  a  great  piquancy  in  this  shaping  of  a  mind  more  in-* 
tellectually  eager  and  pliant  than  any  he  had  yet  come  across 


364 


EOREKT  ELSMERS. 


among  younger  men ;  perpetual  food,  toe,  for  his  sense  of  irony, 
in  the  intellectual  contradictions,  wherein  Elsmere's  develop- 
ing ideas  and  information  were  now,  according  to  the  squire, 
involving  hirn  at  every  turn. 

His  religious  foundations  are  gone  already,  if  he  did  but 
know  it,"  Mr.  Wendover  grimly  remarked  to  himself  one  day 
about  this  time,  *'but  he  will  take  so  long  finding  it  out  that 
the  results  are  not  worth  speculating  on." 

Cynically  assured,  therefore,  at  bottom  of  his  own  power 
v/ith  this  ebullient  nature,  the  squire  was  quite  prepared  to 
make  external  concessions,  or,  as  we  have  said,  to  pay  his 
price.  It  annoyed  him  that  when  Elsmere  would  press  for 
allotment  land,  or  a  new  institute,  or  a  better  supply  of  water 
for  the  village,  it  was  not  open  to  him  merely  to  give  carte 
blanche,  and  refer  his  petitioner  to  Henslowe.  Eobert's  opin> 
ion  of  Henslowe,  and  Henslowe's  now  more  cautious  but  still 
incessant  hostihty  to  the  rector,  were  patent  at  last  even  to 
the  squire.  The  situation  was  worrying  and  wasted  time.  It 
must  be  changed. 

So  one  morning  he  met  Elsmere  with  a  bundle  of  letters  in 
his  hand,  calmly  informed  him  that  Henslowe  had  been  sent 
about  his  business,  and  that  it  would  be  a  kindness  if  Mr.  Els- 
mere would  do  him  the  favor  of  looking  through  some  applica- 
tions for  the  vacant  post  just  received. 

Elsmere,  much  taken  by  surprise,  felt  at  first  as  it  was  natural 
for  an  oversensitive,  overscrupulous  man  to  feel.  His  enemy 
had  been  given  into  his  hand,  and  instead  of  victory  he  could 
only  realize  that  he  had  brought  a  man  to  ruin. 

**He  has  a  ^vife  and  children,"  he  said,"  quickly,  looking  at 
the  squire. 

*'0f  course  I  have  pensioned  him,"  replied  the  squire,  im- 
patiently; ''otherwise  I  imagine  he  would  be  hanging  round 
our  necks  to  the  end  of  the  chapter." 

There  was  something  in  the  careless  indifference  of  the  tone 
which  sent  a  shiver  through  Elsmere.  After  all,  this  man 
had  served  the  squire  for  fifteen  years,  and  it  was  not  Mr. 
Wendover  who  had  much  to  complain  3f 

one  with  a  conscience  couid  have  held  out  a  finger  to 
keep  Henslowe  in  his  po^t.  But  though  Elsmere  took  the  let- 
ters and  promised  to  give  them  his  best  attention,  as  soon  as 
he  got  home  he  made  himself  irrationally  miserable  over  the 
matter.   It  was  not  his  f^ailt  that^  from  the  moment  of  his  a> 


EOBEET  BLSMBEB.  365 

rival  in  the  parish,  Henslowe  had  made  him  the  target  of  a 
vulgar  and  imbittered  hostility,  and  so  far  as  he  had  struck 
^ut  in  return  it  had  been  for  the  protection  of  persecuted  and 
defenseless  creatures.  But  aU  the  same,  he  could  not  get  the 
thought  of  the  man's  collapse  and  humiliation  out  of  his  mmd. 
How  at  his  age  was  he  to  find  other  work,  and  how  was  he  to 
endure  life  at  Murewell  without  his  comfortable  house  Ms 
smart  gig,  his  easy  command  of  spirits,  and  the  crmging  of  the 

farmers?  ..  i  * 

Tormented  by  the  sordid  misery  of  the  situation  almost  as 
though  it  had  been  his  own,  Elsmere  ran  down  impulsively  m 
the  evenmgto  the  agent's  house.  Coiild  nothing  be  done  to 
assure  the  man  that  he  was  not  really  his  enemy,  and  that 
anything  the  parson's  influence  and  the  parson's  money  could 
do  to  help  him  to  a  more  decent  Uf e,  and  work  which  offered 
fewer  temptations  and  less  power  over  human  bemgs,  should 

be  done?  ^  i.  t 

It  need  haxdly  be  said  that  the  visit  was  a  co^Pl«*«  ^^^^J; 
Henslowe,  who  was  drmking  hard,  no  sooner  heard  Elsmere  s 
voice  in  the  Uttle  hall  than  he  dashed  open  the  door  which 
separated  them,  and,  in  a  paroxysm  of  drunken  rage,  hurled 
at  Elsmere  all  the  venomous  stuff  he  had  been  garnering  up 
for  months  against  some  such  occasion.  The  vilest  abuse,  the 
foulest  chaxges-there  was  nothing  that  the  °^add«°f^sot  now 
fairly  unmasked,  denied  himself.  Elsmere,  pale  and  ere^, 
tried  to  make  himself  heard.  In  vam.  Henslowe  was  physi- 
cally incapable  of  taking  in  a  word.  t,r,;ofWfl„T. 

At  last  the  agent,  beside  himself,  made  a  rush,  his  three  un^ 
tidv  children,  who  had  been  hanging  open-mouthed  in  the 
^ig^und,  ;et  up  a  howl  of  terror  and  his  Scotch  w^e  m^^ 
pinched  and  sour  than  ever,  who  had  teeen  so  far  a  gloomy 
spectator  of  the  scene,  interposed.  . 

"Have  doon  wi'  ye,"  she  said,  suUenly^^ putting  o^*  ^  long 
bony  arm  in  front  of  her  husband,  "  or  I'U  oust  lock  oop  that 
tlldy  where  ye'll  naw  find  it  if  ye  pull  the  house  doon  Now 
turning  to  Elsmere,  "would  ye  jest  be  going^  Ye^an 
it  weel.  I  daur  say,  but  ye've  doon  yer  wark.  and  ye  maun 

'Tndshe  motioned  him  out,  not  without  a  somber  dignity. 
Elsmere  went  home  crest-fallen.  The  enthusiast  is  a  good  deal 
too  apt  to  under-estimate  the  stubbornness  of  moral  fact,  and 
these  rebuffs  have  their  stem  uses  for  charaxjter. 


366 


ROBERT  ELSMERR, 


They  intend  to  go  on  living  here,  I  am  told,"  Elsmere  said, 
as  he  wound  up  the  story,  ''and  as  Henslowe  is  still  church- 
warden,  he  may  do  us  a  world  of  mischief  yet.  However,  I 
think  that  wife  wHl  keep  him  in  order.  No  doubt  vengeance 
would  be  sweet  to  her  as  to  him,  but  she  has  a  shrewd  eye, 
poor  soul,  to  the  squire's  remittances.  It  is  a  wretched  bus- 
iness, and  I  don't  take  a  man's  hate  easily,  Catherine!— though 
it  may  be  a  folly  to  say  so." 

Catherine  was  irresponsive.  The  Old  Testament  element  in 
her  found  a  lawful  satisfaction  in  Henslowe's  fall,  and  a  wicked 
man's  hatred,  according  to  her,  mattered  only  to  himself. 
The  squire's  conduct,  on  the  other  hand,  made  her  uneasily 
proud.  To  her,  naturally,  it  simply  meant  that  he  was  fallilljr 
under  Robert's  spell.   So  much  the  better  for  him,  but^  . 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

That  same  afternoon  Robert  started  on  a  walk  to  a  distant 
larm,  where  one  of  his  Sunday-school  boys  lay  recovering  from 
rheumatic  fever.  The  rector  had  his  pocket  full  of  articles— 
a  story-book  in  one,  a  puzzle  map  in  the  other— destined  for 
Master  Carter's  amusement.  On  the  way  he  was  to  pick  up 
Mr.  Wendover  at  the  park  gates. 

It  was  a  dehcious  April  morning.  A  soft  west  wind  blew 
through  leaf  and  grass : 

''Driving  sweet  buds,  like  flocks,  to  feed  in  air." 
The  spring  was  stirring  everywhere,  and  Robert  raced  along, 
feeling  in  every  vein  a  life,  an  ebullience  akin  to  that  of  nature! 
As  he  neared  the  place  of  meeting  it  occurred  to  him  that  the 
squire  had  been  unusually  busy  lately,  unusuaUy  sUent  and 
absent  too  on  their  walks.  What  ims  he  always  at  work  on? 
Robert  had  often  inquired  of  him  as  to  the  nature  of  those  piles 
of  proof  and  manuscript  with  which  his  table  was  littered.  The 
squire  had  never  given  any  but  the  most  general  answer,  and 
had  always  changed  the  subject.  There  was  an  invincible  per- 
sonal reserve  about  him  which,  through  all  his  walks  and  talks 
with  Elsmere,  had  never  as  yet  broken  down.  He  would  talk 
of  other  men  and  other  men's  labors  by  the  hour,  but  not  of 
his  own.  Elsmere  reflected  on  the  fact,  mingling  with  the  re- 
lection  a  certain  humorous  scorn  of  his  own  constant  open- 
•iess  and  readiness  to  tatbe  cotiniSiBl  with  the  world. 


ROBEBT  ELSMBBB. 


367 


However,  Ms  book  isn't  a  mere  excuse,  as  Langham's  is," 
Elsmere  inwardly  remarked.  Langbam,  in  a  certain  sense, 
plays  even  with  learning;  Mr.  Wendover  plays  at  nothing." 

By  the  way,  he  had  a  letter  from  Langbam  in  his  pocket 
'much  more  cheerful  and  human  than  usual.    Let  him  look 
through  it  again. 

Not  a  word,  of  course,  of  that  National  Gallery  experience  !— 
a  circumstance,  however,  which  threw  no  Jight  on  it  either 
way. 

I  find  myself  a  good  deal  reconciled  to  life  by  this  migra- 
tion of  mine,"  wrote  Langbam.  ' '  Now  that  my  inforced  duties 
to  them  are  all  done  with,  my  fellow-creatures  seem  to  me 
much  more  decent  fellows  than  before.  The  great  stir  of  Lon- 
don, in  which,  unless  I  please,  I  have  no  part  whatever,  at- 
tracts me  more  than  I  could  have  thought  possible.  No  one  in 
these  noisy  streets  has  any  rightful  claim  upon  me.  I  have 
cut  away  at  one  stroke  lectures,  and  Boards  of  Studies,  and 
tutors'  meetings,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  wearisome  Oxford 
make-believe,  and  the  creature  left  behind  feels  lighter  and 
nimbler  than  he  has  felt  for  years.  I  go  to  concerts  and  thea- 
ters ;  I  look  at  the  people  in  the  streets ;  I  even  begin  to  take 
an  outsider's  interest  in  social  questions,  in  the  puny  dykes 
which  well-meaning  people  are  trying  to  raise  all  round  us 
against  the  encroaching,  devastating  labor-troubles  of  the 
future.  By  dint  of  running  away  from  life,  I  may  end  by  cut- 
ting a  much  more  passabe  figure  in  it  than  before.  Be  con- 
soled, my  dear  Elsmere;  reconsider  your  remonstrances." 

There,  under  the  great  cedar  by  the  gate,  stood  Mr.  Wend- 
over. Illumined  as  he  was  by  the  spring  sunshine,  he  struck 
Elsmere  as  looking  unusually  shrunken  and  old.  And  yet  un- 
der the  look  of  physical  exhaustion  there  was  a  new  serenity, 
almost  a  peacefulness  of  expression,  which  gave  the  whole 
man  a  different  aspect. 

Don't  take  me  far,"  he  said,  abruptly,  as  they  started. 

I  have  not  got  the  energy  for  it.  I  have  been  overworking, 
and  must  go  away." 

I  have  been  sure  of  it  for  some  time,"  said  Elsmere,  warm- 
ly. *^You  ought  to  have  a  long  rest.  But  mayn't  I  know, 
Mr.  Wendover,  before  you  take  it,  what  this  great  task  is  you 
have  been  toiling  at?  Remember^  you  have  never  told  me  a 
word  of  if 


KOBERT  KLSMERE. 


'  And  Elsmere's  smile  bad  in  it  a  touch  of  most  friendly  re» 
proach.  Fatigue  had  left  the  scholar  relaxed,  comparatively 
defenseless.  His  sunk  and  wrinkled  eyes  hghted  up  with  a 
smile,  faint  indeed,  but  of  unwonted  softness. 

A  task  indeed,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh,  "the  task  of  a  life- 
time. To-day  I  finished  the  second  third  of  it.  Probably  be- 
fore the  last  section  is  begun  some  interloping  German  will 
have  stepped  down  before  me;  it  is  the  way  of  the  race!  But 
for  the  moment  there  is  the  satisfaction  of  having  come  to  an 
end  of  some  sort— a  natural  halt,  at  any  rate." 

*'Elsmere's  eyes  were  still  interrogative.  "  Oh,  well,"  said 
the  squire,  hastily,  it  is  a  book  I  planned  just  after  I  took  my 
doctor's  degree  at  Berlin.  It  struck  me  then  as  the  great  want 
of  modern  scholarship.  It  is  a  History  of  Evidence,  or  rather, 
more  strictly,  'A  History  of  Testimony.'  " 

Eobert  started.  The  library/  flashed  into  his  mind,  and 
Langham's  figure  in  the  long  gray  coat  sitting  on  the  stool. 

A  great  subject,"  he  said,  slowly,  a  magnificent  subject. 
How  have  you  conceived  it,  I  wonder?" 

"  Simply  from  the  stand-point  of  evolution,  of  development. 
The  philosophical  value  of  the  subject  is  enormous.  You  must 
have  considered  it,  of  course ;  every  historian  must.  But  few 
people  have  any  idea  in  detail  of  the  amount  of  light  which  the 
history  of  human  witness  in  the  world,  systematically  carried 
through,  throws  on  the  history  of  the  human  mind;  that  is  to 
say,  on  the  history  of  ideas." 

The  squire  paused,  his  keen  scrutinizing  look  dwelling  on  the 
face  beside  him,  as  though  to  judge  whether  he  were  under- 
stood. 

Oh,  true !"  cried  Elsmere ;  most  true.  Now  I  know  what 
vague  want  it  is  that  has  been  haunting  me  for  months— " 

He  stopped  short,  his  look,  aglow  with  all  the  young  think- 
er's ardor,  fixed  on  the  squire. 

The  squire  received  the  outburst  in  silence— a  somewhat  am- 
biguous silence. 

*' But,  go  on,"  said  Elsmere;  "please  go  on." 

"  Well,  you  remember,"  said  the  squire,  slowly,  "  that  when 
Tractarianism  began  I  was  for  a  time  one  of  Newman's  vic- 
tims. Then,  when  Newman  departed,  I  went  over  body  and 
bones  to  the  Liberal  reaction  which  followed  his  going.  In 
the  first  ardor  of  what  seemed  to  me  a  release  from  slavery  I 
migrated  to  Berlin,  in  search  ot  J^nowled^-^  wVnVh  fhere  was  no 


ROBERT  ELSMBRE. 


36^ 


getting  in  England,  and  there,  with  the  taste  of  a  dozen  aim- 
less theological  controversies  still  in  my  mouth,  this  idea  first 
took  hold  of  me.  It  was  simply  this :  Could  one  through  an 
exhaustiv,e  examination  of  human  records,  helped  by  modern 
physiological  and  mental  science,  get  at  the  conditions,  physi- 
cal and  mental,  which  govern  the  greater  or  lesser  correspond- 
ence between  human  witness  and  the  fact  it  reports?" 

* '  A  giant's  task !"  cried  Eobert ;  ' '  hardly  conceivable !" 

The  squire  smiled  slightly— the  smile  of  a  man  who  looks 
back  with  indulgent  half-melancholy  satire  on  the  rash  ambi- 
tions of  his  youth. 

** Naturally,"  he  resumed,  I  soon  saw  I  must  restrict  myself 
to  European  testimony,  and  that  only  up  to  the  Renaissance. 
To  do  that,  of  course,  I  had  to  dig  into  the  east,  to  learn  sev- 
eral Oriental  languages— Sanskrit  amoag  them.  Hebrew  I 
already  knew.  Then,  when  I  had  got  my  languages,  I  began 
to  work  steadily  through  the  whole  mass  of  existing  records, 
sifting  and  comparing.  It  is  thirty  years  since  I  started. 
Fifteen  years  ago  I  finished  the  section  deahng  with  classical 
antiquity— with  India,  Persia,  Egypt,  and  Judaea.  To-day  I 
have  put  the  last  strokes  to  a  History  of  Testimony  from  the 
Christian  era  down  to  the  sixth  century— from  Livy  to  Gregory 
of  Tours,  from  Augustus  to  Justinian." 

Elsmere  tftrned  to  him  with  wonder,  with  a  movement  of 
irrepressible  homage.  Thirty  years  of  unbroken  solitary  labor 
for  one  end,  one  cause.  In  our  hurried  fragmentary  life  a 
purpose  of  this  tenacity,  this  power  of  realizing  itseif ,  strikes 
the  imagination. 

And  your  two  books?" 

*  *  Were  a  mere  interlude, "  repHed  the  squire,  bri^y.  * '  After 
the  completion  of  the  first  part  of  my  work  there  were  certain 
deposits  left  in  me  which  it  was  a  relief  to  get  rid  of,  especially 
in  connection  with  my  renewed  impressions  of  England,"  he 
added,  dryly. 

'  Elsmere  was  silent,  thinking  this  then  was  the  explanation 
■  of  the  squire's  minute  and  exhaustive  knowledge  of  the  early 
Christian  centuries,  a  knowledge  into  which — apart  from  cer- 
tain forbidden  topics— he  had  himself  dipped  so  freely.  Sud- 
denly, as  he  mused,  there  awoke  in  the  young  man  a  new 
:  hunger,  a  new  unmanageable  impulse  toward  frankness  of 
speech.  All  his  nascent  intellectual  powers  were  alive  and 
clamorous.   For  the  moment  his  past  reticences  and  timidities 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


looked  to  him  absurd.  The  mind  rebelled  against  the  barriers 
it  had  been  rearing  against  itself.  It  rushed  on  to  sweep  them 
away,  crying  out  that  all  this  shrinking  from  free  discussion 
had  been  at  bottom    a  mere  treason  to  faith." 

Naturally,  Mr.  Wendover,"  he  said  at  last,  and  his  tone 
had  a  half -defiant,  half -nervous  energy,  **you  have  given  your 
best  attention  all  these  years  to  the  Christian  problems." 

''Naturally,"  said  the  squire,  dryly.   Then,  as  his  compan- 
ion still  seemed  to  wait,  keenly  expectant,  he  resumed,  with 
something  cynical  in  the  smile  which  accompanied  the  words: 
*'But  I  have  no  wish  to  infringe  our  convention." 

A  convention  was  it?"  rephed  Elsmere,  flushing.  ''I think 
I  only  wanted  to  make  my  own  position  clear  and  prevent  mis- 
understanding. But  it  is  impossible  that  I  should  be  indifferent 
to  the  results  of  thirty  years'  such  work  as  you  can  give  to  so 
great  a  subject." 

The  squire  drew  himself  up  a  little  under  his  cloak  and 
seemed  to  consider.  His  tired  eyes,  fixed  on  the  spring  lane 
before  them,  saw  in  reahty  only  the  long  retrospects  of  the 
past.  Then  a  light  broke  in  them,  transformed  them — a  fight 
of  battle.  He  turned  to  the  man  beeide  him,  and  his  sharp 
look  swept  over  him  from  head  to  foot.  Well,  if  he  would 
have  it,  let  him  have  it.  He  had  been  contemptuously  content 
so  far  to  let  the  subject  be.  But  Mr.  Wendov^er,  in  spite  of  his 
philosophy,  had  never  been  proof  all  his  life  against  an  anti- 
clerical instinct  worthy  almost  of  a  Paris  municipal  councilor. 
In  spite  of  his  fatigue  there  woke  in  him  a  kind  of  cruel  whim- 
sical pleasure  at  the  notion  of  speaking,  once  for  all,  what  he 
conceived  to  be  the  whole  bare  truth  to  this  clever,  attractive 
dreamer,  to  the  young  f eUow  who  thought  he  could  condescend 
to  science  f rora  the  standpoint  of  the  Christian  miracles ! 

Results?"  he  said,  interrogatively.  Well,  as  you  will 
imderstand,  it  is  tolerably  difficult  to  summarize  such  a  mass 
at  a  moment's  notice.  But  I  can  give  you  the  lines  of  my  last 
volumes,  if  it  would  interest  you  to  hear  them." 

That  walk  prolonged  itself  far  beyond  Mr.  Wendover's  orig- 
inal intention.  There  was  something  in  the  situation,  in  Eis- 
mere's  comments,  or  arguments,  or  silences,  which  after  a 
while  banished  the  scholar's  sense  of  exhaustion  and  made  him 
obfivious  of  the  country  distances.  No  man  feels  another's 
soul  quivering  and  struggling  in  l\is  grasp  without  excitement, 
let  his  nerve  and  his  self-restraint  be  what  they  may. 


ROBERT  BLSMERI2. 


As  for  Elsmere,  that  hour  and  a  half,  little  as  he  realized  it 
at  the  time,  represented  the  turning-point  of  life.  He  listened, 
he  suggested,  he  put  in  an  acute  remark  here,  an  argument 
there,  such  as  the  squire  had  often  difficulty  in  meeting.  Every 
now  and  then  the  inner  protest  of  an  attacked  faith  would 
break  through  in  words  so  full  of  poignancy,  in  imagery  so 
dramatic,  that  the  squire's  closely  knit  sentences  would  be  for 
the  moment  wholly  disarranged.  On  the  whole,  he  proved 
himself  no  mean  guardian  of  all  that  was  most  sacred  to  him- 
self and  to  Catherine,  and  the  squire's  intellectual  respect  for 
him  rose  considerably. 

AU^  the  same,  by  the  end  of  their  conversation  that  first 
period  of  happy  unclouded  youth  we  have  been  considering  was 
over  for  poor  Elsmere.  In  obedience  to  certain  inevitable  lawfc^ 
and  instincts  of  the  mind,  he  had  been  for  months  tempting 
his  fate,  inviting  catastrophe.  None  the  less  did  the  first  sure 
approaches  of  that  catastrophe  fill  him  with  a  restless  resist- 
ance which  was  in  itself  anguish. 

As  to  th.e  squire's  talk,  it  was  simply  the  outpouring  of  one 
of  the  richest,  most  skeptical,  and  most  highly  trained  of 
minds  on  the  subject  of  Christion  origins.  At  no  previous 
period  of  his  life  would  it  have  greatly  affected  Elsmere.  But 
now  at  every  step  the  ideas,  impressions,  arguments  bred  in 
him  by  his  months  of  historical  work  and  ordinary  converse 
with  the  squire  rushed  in,  as  they  had  done  once  before,  to 
cripple  resistance,  to  check  an  emerging  answer,  to  justify  Mr. 
Wendover. 

We  may  quote  a  few  fragmentary  utterances  taken  almost 
at  random  from  the  long  wrestle  of  the  two  men,  for  the  sake 
of  indicating  the  main  lines  of  a  bitter  after  struggle. 

Testimony  like  every  other  human  product  has  developed, 
Man's  power  of  apprehending  and  recording  what  he  sees  and 
hears  has  grown  from  less  to  more,  from  weaker  to  stronger, 
like  any  other  of  his  faculties,  just  as  the  reasoning  powers  of 
the  cave-dweller  have  developed  into  the  reasoning  powers  of 
a  Kant.  What  one  wants  is  the  ordered  proof  of  this,  and  it 
can  be  got  from  history  and  experience." 

"  To  plunge  into  the  Christian  period  without  having  first 
cleared  the  mind  as  to  what  is  meant  in  history  and  literature 
by  *the  critical  method,'  which  inj^istory  may  be  defined  as 


BOBEBT  ELSMEBE. 


the  *  science  oi  what  is  credible,'  and  in  literature  as  Hhe 
science  of  what  is  rational,'  is  to  invite  fiasco.  The  theologian 
in  such  a  state  sees  no  obstacle  to  accepting  an  arbitrary  list  of 
documents  with  all  the  strange  stuff  they  may  contain,  and 
declaring  them  to  be  sound  historical  material,  while  he  applies 
to  all  the  strange  stuff  of  a  similar  kind  surrounding  them  the 
most  rigorous  principles  of  modern  science.  Or  he  has  to 
make  believe  that  the  reasoning  processes  exhibited  in  the 
speeches  of  the  Acts,  in  certain  passages  of  St.  Paul's  Epistles, 
or  in  the  Old  Testament  quotations  in  the  Gospels,  have  a 
validity  for  the  mind  of  the  nineteenth  century,  when  in  truth 
they  are  the  imperfect,  half -childish  products  of  the  mind  of 
the  first  century,  of  quite  insignificant  or  indirect  value  io  the 
historian  of  fact,  of  enormous  value  to  the  historian  of  testi- 
mony and  its  varieties." 

''Suppose,  for  instance,  before  I  begin  to  deal  with  the 
Christian  story,  and  the  earliest  Christian  development,  I  try 
to  make  out  beforehand  what  are  the  molds,  the  channels  into 
which  the  testimony  of  the  time  must  run.  I  look  for  these 
molds,  of  course,  in  the  dominant  ideas,  the  intellectual  pre- 
conceptions and  preoccupations  existing  when  the  period 
begins. 

''In  the  first  place,  I  shall  find  present  in  the  age  which  saw 
the  birth  of  Christianity,  as  in  so  many  other  ages,  a  universal 
preconception  in  favor  of  miracle— that  is  to  say,  of  deviations 
from  the  common  norm  of  experience,  governing  the  work  of 
all  men  of  all  schools.  Very  well,  allow  for  it  then.  Eead  the 
testimony  of  the  period  in  the  light  of  it.  Be  prepared  for  the 
inevitable  differences  between  it  and  the  testimony  of  your  own 
day.  The  witness  of  the  time  is  not  true,  nor,  in  the  strict 
sense,  false.  It  is  merely  incompetent,  half -trained,  pre-scien- 
tific,  but  all  through  perfectly  natural.  The  wonder  would 
have  been  to  have  had  a  life  of  Christ  without  miracles.  The 
air  teems  with  them.  The  East  is  full  of  Messiahs.  Even  a 
Tacitus  is  superstitious.  Even  a  Vespasian  works  miracles. 
Even  a  Nero  can  not  die,  but  fifty  years  after  his  death  is  still 
looked  for  as  the  inaugurator  of  a  millennium  of  horror.  The 
Eesurrection  is  partly  invented,  partly  imagined,  partly  ideally 
true— in  any  case  wholly  intelligible  and  natural,  as  a  product 
of  the  age,  when  once  you  have  the  key  of  that  age. 

"In  the  next  place,  look  for  the  preconceptions  that  have  a 


BOBBRT  ELSMERB. 

definite  historical  origin ;  those,  for  instance,  flowing  from  the 
pre-Christian,  apocalyptic  literature  of  the  Jews,  taking  the 
Maccabean  legend  of  Daniel  as  the  center  of  inquiry— those 
flowing  from  Alexandrian  Judaism  and  the  school  of  Phiio— 
those  flowing  from  the  Palestinian  schools  of  exegesis.  Ex- 
amine your  synoptic  gospels,  your  Gospel  of  St.  John,  your 
Apocalypse,  in  the  light  of  these.  You  have  no  other  chance 
of  understanding  them.  But  so  examined,  they  fall  into  place, 
become  explicable  and  rational  ;  such  material  as  science  can 
-  make  full  use  of.  The  doctrine  of  the  Divinity  of  Christ, 
Christian  eschatology,  and  Christian  views  of  prophecy  will 
also  have  found  their  place  in  a  sound  historical  scheme!" 

^'  It  is  discreditable  now  for  the  man  of  inteUigence  to  refuse 
to  read  his  Livy  in  the  hght  of  his  Mommsen.  My  object  has 
been  to  help  in  making  it  discreditable  to  him  to  refuse  to  read 
his  Christian  documents  in  the  light  of  a  trained  scientific 
criticism.  We  shall  have  made  some  positive  advance  in  ration- 
ality when  the  man  who  is  perfectly  capable  of  deaUng  sanely 
with  legend  in  one  connection,  and,  in  another,  will  insist  on 
confounding  it  with  history  proper,  can  not  do  so  any  longer 
without  losing  caste,  without  falling  ipso  facto  out  of  court 
with  men  of  education.  It  is  enough  for  a  man  of  letters  if  he 
has  helped  ever  so  little  in  the  final  staking  out  of  the  bound- 
aries between  reason  and  unreason !" 

And  so  on.  These  are  mere  ragged  gleanings  from  an  ampre 
store.  The  discussion  in  reality  ranged  over  the  whole  field 
of  history,  plunged  into  philosophy,  and  into  the  subtlest 
problems  of  mind.  At  the  end  of  it,  after  he  had  been  con- 
scious for  many  bitter  moments  of  that  same  constriction  of 
heart  which  had  overtaken  him  once  before  at  Mr.  Wendover's 
hands,  the  religious  passion  in  Elsmere  once  more  rose  with 
sudden  stubborn  energy  against  the  iron  negations  pressed 
upon  it.  ' 

''I  will  not  fight  you  any  more,  Mr.  Wendover,"  he  said, 
with  his  moved,  flashing  look.  **I  am  perfectly  conscious 
that  my  own  mental  experience  of  the  last  two  years  has  made 
it  necessary  to  re-examine  some  of  these  intellectual  founda- 
tions of  faith.  But  as  to  the  faith  itself,  that  is  its  own  wit- 
ness. It  does  not  depend,  after  all,  upon  anything  external, 
but  upon  the  living  voice  of  the  Eternal  in  the  soul  of  man !" 

Id  voluntarily  bis  pace  quickened.   The  whole  man  wa.* 


374 


liOEERT  ELSMEBE. 


gathered  into  one  great,  useless,  pitiful  defiance,  and  the 
outer  world  was  forgotten.  The  squire  kept  unwith  difficulty 
awhile,  a  faint  gliramer  of  sarcasm  playing^ow  and  then 
roimd  the  straight  thin-Hpped  mouth.  Then  suddenly  he 
stopped. 

''No,  let  it  be.  Forget  me  and  my  book,  Elsmere.  Every- 
thing can  be  got  out  of  in  this  world.  By  the  way,  we  seem  to 
have  reached  the  ends  of  the  earth.  Those  are  the  new  Mile 
End  cottages,  I  beheve.  With  your  leave,  VYl  sit  down  in  one 
of  them,  and  send  to  the  Hall  for  the  carriage. 

EJsmere's  repentant  attention  was  drawn  at  once  to  his 
companion. 

"I  am  a  selfish  idiot,"  he  said,  hotly,  *'to  have  led  you  into 
overwalking  and  overtalking  like  this." 

The  squire  made  some  short  reply  and  instantly  turned  the 
matter  off.  The  momentary  softness  which  had  marked  his 
meeting  with  Elsmere  had  entirely  vanished,  leaving  only  the 
Mr.  Wendover  of  every  day,  who  was  merely  made  awkward 
and  unapproachable  by  the  slightest  touch  of  personal  sym- 
T)athy.  No  living  being,  certainly  not  his  foolish  little  sister, 
had  any  right  to  take  care  of  the  squire.  And  as  the  signs  of 
age  become  more  apparent,  this  one  fact  had  often  worked 
powerfully  on  the  sympathies  of  Elsmere's  chivalrous  youth, 
though  as  yet  he  had  been  no  more  capable  than  any  one  else 
of  breaking  through  the  squire's  haughty  reserve. 

As  they  turned  down  the  newly  worn  track  to  the  cottages, 
whereof  the  weekly  progress  had  been  for  some  time  the  de- 
light of  Elsmere's  heart,  they  met  old  Meyrick  in  his  pony- 
carriage.  He  stopped  his  shambling  steed  at  sight  of  the  pair. 
The  bleared,  spectacled  eyes  lighted  up,  the  prim  mouth  broke 
into  a  smile  which  matched  the  April  sim. 

''Well,  squire;  well,  Mr.  Elsmere,  are  you  going  to  have  a 
look  at  those  places?  Never  saw  such  palaces.  I  only  hope  I 
naay  end  my  days  in  anything  so  good.  Will  you  give  me  a 
lease,  squire?" 

Mr.  Wendover's  deep  eyes  took  a  momentary  survey,  half 
indulgent,  half  contemptuous,  of  the  naive,  awkward-looking 
old  creature  in  the  pony-carriage.  Then,  without  troubling  to 
find  an  answer  he  went  his  way. 

Robert  stayed  chatting  a  moment  or  two,  knowing  perfectly 
well  what  Meyrick's  gay  garruhty  meant.  A  sharp  and  bitter 
sense  of  the  ironies  of  life  swept  across  him.   The  squire  hu- 


EOBEET  ELSMEBB. 


8^5 


manized,  influenced  by  him— he  knew  that  ms  the  imagfe  m 
Meyrick's  mind ;  he  remembered  with  a  quiet  scorn  its  pres«^ 
ence  in  his  own.  And  never,  never  had  he  felt  his  own  weak- 
ness and  the  strength  of  that  grim  personality  so  much  as  at 
that  instant. 

That  evening  Catherine  noticed  an  unusual  silence  and  de- 
pression in  Robert.  She  did  her  best  to  cheer  it  away,  to  get 
at  the  cause  of  it.  In  vain.  At  last,  with  her  usual  wise  ten- 
derness, she  left  him  alone,  conscious  herself,  as  she  closed  the 
study  door  behind  her,  of  a  momentary  dreariness  of  soul 
coming  she  knew  not  whence,  and  only  dispersed  by  the  in 
stinctive  upward  leap  of  prayer. 

Robert  was  no  sooner  alone  than  he  put  down  his  pipe  and 
sat  brooding  over  the  fire.  All  the  long  debase  of  the  after- 
noon began  to  fight  itself  out  again  in  the  shrinking  mind. 
Suddenly,  in  his  restless  pain,  a  thought  occurred  to  him.  He 
had  been  much  struck  in  the  squire's  conversation  by  certain 
allusions  to  arguments  drawn  from  the  Book  of  Daniel.  It 
was  not  a  subject  with  which  Robert  had  any  great  famihar- 
ity.  He  remembered  his  Pusey  dimly,  certain  Divinity  lec- 
tures, an  article  of  Westcott's. 

He  raised  his  hand  quickly  and  took  down  the  monograpji 
on  -'The  Use  of  the  Old  Testament  in  the  New,"  which  the 
squire  had  sent  him  in  the  earliest  days  of  their  acquaintance. 
A  sacred  dread  and  repugnance  had  held  him  from  it  till  now. 
Curiously  enough  it  was  not  he  but  Catherine,  as  we  shall  see, 
who  had  opened  it  first.  Now,  however,  he  got  it  down  and 
turned  to  the  section  on  Daniel. 

It  was  a  change  of  conviction  on  the  subject  of  the  date  and 
authorship  of  this  strange  product  of  Jewish  patriotism  in  the 
aecond  century  before  Christ  that  drove  M.  Renan  out  of  the 
Church  of  Rome.  ''For  the  Catholic  Church  to  confess,"  he 
says  in  his  "  Souvenirs,"  "  that  Daniel  is  an  apochryphal  book 
of  the  time  of  the  Maccabees,  would  be  to  confess  that  she  had 
made  a  mis|^ake;  if  see  had  made  this  mistake  she  may  have 
made  others;  she  is  no  longer  divinely  inspired." 

The  Protestant,  who  is  in  truth  more  bound  to  the  Book  of 
Daniel  than  M.  Renan,  has  various  ways  of  getting  over  the 
difficulties  raised  against  the  supposed  authorship  of  the  book 
by  modern  critici^.  Robert  found  all  these  ways  enumerated 
in  the  brilliant  and  vigorous  pages  of  the  book  before  him. 

In  the  first  place,  like  the  orthodox  Saint-Sulpicien,  the 


876 


HOBEST  ELSMEM5. 


Protestant  meets  the  critic  with  a  flat  non  possvmus.  *'Tour 
arguments  are  useless  and  irrelevant,"  he  says  in  effect. 

However  plausible  may  be  your  objections,  the  Book  of 
Daniel  is  what  it  professes  to  be,  because  our  Lord  quoted  it  in 
such  a  manner  as  to  distinctly  recognize  its  authority.  The 
AJl-True  and  All-Knowing  ^an  not  have  made  a  mistake,  nor 
can  He  have  expressly  led  His  disciples  to  regard  as  genuine 
and  Divine,  prophecies  which  were  in  truth  the  inventions  of 
an  ingenious  romancer." 

But  the  liberal  Anglican— the  man,  that  is  to  say,  whose 
logical  sense  is  inferior  to  his  sense  of  literary  probabilities— 
proceeds  quite  differently. 

"  Your  argimaents  are  perfectly  just,"  he  says  to  the  critic; 

the  book  is  a  patriotic  fraud,  of  no  value  except  to  the  his- 
torian of  nterature.  But  how  do  you  know  that  our  Lord 
quoted  it  as  t7me  in  the  strict  sense?  In  fact  He  quoted  it  as 
literature,  as  a  Greek  might  have  quoted  Homer,  as  an  English- 
man might  quote  Shakespeare." 

And  many  a  harassed  Churchman  takes  refuge  forthwith  in 
the  ilew  explanation.  It  is  very  difficult,  no  doubt,  to  make 
the  passages  in  the  Gospels  agree  with  it,  but  at  the  bottom  oi 
his  mind  there  is  a  saving,  silent  scorn  for  the  old  theories  of 
inspiration.  He  admits  to  himself  that  probably  Christ  was 
not  correctly  reported  in  the  matter. 

Then  appears  the  critic,  having  no  interests  to  serve,  no 
parf^  pris  to  defend,  and  states  the  matter  calmly,  dispassion- 
ately, as  it  appears  to  him.  '*No  reasonable  man,"  says  the 
ablest  German  exponent  of  the  Book  of  Daniel,  '^can  doubt" 
— that  this  most  interesting  piece  of  writing  belongs  to  the 
year  169  or  170  b.  c.  It  was  written  to  stir  up  the  courage  and 
patriotism  of  the  Jews,  weighed  down  by  the  persecutions  of 
Antiochus  Epiphanes.  It  had  enormous  vogue.  It  inaugurated 
a  new  Apocalyptic  literature.  ^  And  clearly  the  youth  of  Jesus 
of  Nazareth  was  vitally  influenced  by  it.  It  entered  into  his 
thoUj^ht,  it  helped  to  shape  his  career. 

But  Elsmere  did  not  trouble  himself  much  with  the  critic, 
as  at  any  rate  he  was  reported  by  the  author  of  the  book  be- 
fore him.  Long  before  the  critical  case  was  reached  he  had 
flung  the  book  heavily  from  him.  The  mind  accomplished  its 
further  task  without  help  from  outside.  Iti  the  stillness  of  the 
night  there  rose  up  weirdly  before  him  a  whole  new  mental 
picture— effacing,  pushing  out,  innumerable  older  images  of 


ROBKET  ELSMEEB, 


thought.  It  was  the  image  of  a  purely  human  Christ— a  purely 
human,  explicable,  yet  always  wonderful  ChristiaDity.  It 
broke  his  heart,  but  the  spell  of  it  was  like  some  dream- 
country  wherein  we  see  all  the  familiar  objects  of  life  in  new 
relations  and  perspectives.  He  gazed  upon  it  fascinated,  the 
wailing  underneath  checked  awhile  by  the  strange  beauty  and 
order  of  the  emerging  spectacle.  Only  a  little  while.  Then 
with  a  groan  Elsmere  looked  up,  his  eyes  worn,  his  lips  white 
and  set. 

I  must  face  it—I  must  face  it  through !   God  help  me  I'' 
A  slight  sound  overhead  in  Catherine's  room  sent  a  sudden 
spasm  of  feeling  through  the  young  face.   He  threw  himself 
down,  hiding  from  his  own  foresight  of  what  was  to  be. 

My  darling,  my  darling!  But  she  shall  know  nothing  of 
it— yet." 

CHAPTER  XXV. 
And  he  did  face  it  through. 

The  next  three  months  were  the  bitterest  months  of  Elsmere's 
life.  They  were  marked  by  anguished  mental  struggle,  by  a 
consciousness  of  painful  separation  from  the  soul  nearest  to  his 
own,  and  by  a  constantly  increasing  sense  of  oppression,  of 
closing  avenues  and  narrowing  alternatives,  which  for  weeks 
together  seemed  to  hold  the  mind  in  a  grip  whence  there  was 
no  escape. 

That  struggle  was  not  hurried  and  imbittered  by  the  bodily 
presence  of  the  squire.  Mr.  Wendover  went  off  to  Italy  a  few 
days  after  the  conversation  we  have  described.  But  though  he 
was  not  present  in  the  flesh  the  great  book  of  his  life  was  in 
Elsmere's  hands,  he  had  formally  invited  Elsmere's  remarks 
upon  it;  and  the  air  of  Murewell  seemed  still  echoing  with  his 
sentences,  stiU  astir  with  his  thoughts.  That  curious  instinct 
of  pursuit,  that  avid,  imperious  wish  to  crush  an  irritating  re- 
sistance, which  his  last  walk  with  Elsmere  had  first  awakened 
in  him  with  any  strength,  persisted.  He  wrote  to  Robert  from 
abroad,  and  the  proud  fastidious  scholar  had  never  taken  more 
pains  with  anything  than  with  those  letters. 

Robert  might  have  stopped  them,  might  have  cast  the  whole 
matter  from  him  with  one  resolute  effort.  In  other  relations 
he  had  will  enough  and  to  spare. 

Was  it  an  unexpected  weakness  of  fiber  that  made  it  impos- 
sible?—that  had  placed  him  in  this  way  at  the  squire's  disposal? 


378 


EOBBET  ELSMEEE. 


Half  the  world  would  answer  yes.  Might  not  the  other  half 
plead  that  in  every  generation  there  is  a  minority  of  these  mo- 
bile, impressionable,  defenseless  natures,  who  are  ultimately  at 
the  mercy  of  experience,  at  the  mercy  of  thought,  at  the  mercy 
(shall  we  say?)  of  truth ;  and  that,  in  fact,  it  is  from  this  minor- 
ity that  aU  human  advance  comes? 

During  these  three  miserable  months  it  can  not  be  said— poor 
Elsmere !— that  he  attempted  any  systematic  study  of  Christian 
evidence.  His  mind  was  too  much  torn,  his  heart  too  sore. 
He  pounced  feverishly  on  one  test  point  after  another,  on  the 
Pentateuch,  the  Prophets,  the  relation  of  the  New  Testament 
to  the  thoughts  and  behefs  of  its  time,  the  Gospel  of  St.  John, 
the  evidence  as  to  the  Kesurrection,  the  intellectual  and  moral 
conditions  surrounding  the  formation  of  the  Canon.  His  mind 
swayed  hither  and  thither,  driven  from  each  resting-place  in 
turn  by  the  pressure  of  some  new  difficulty.  And-~let  it  be 
said  again~a*ll  through,  the  only  constant  element  in  the  whole 
dismal  process  was  hia  trained  historical  sense.  If  he  had  gone 
through  this  conflict  at  Oxford,  for  instance,  he  would  have 
come  out  of  it  unscathed ;  for  he  would  simply  have  remained 
throughout  it  ignorant  of  the  true  problems  at  issue.  As  it  was 
the  keen  instrument  he  had  sharpened  so  laboriously  on  indif- 
ferent material  now  plowed  its  agonizing  way,  bit  by  bit,  into 
the  most  intimate  recesses  of  thought  and  faith. 

Much  of  the  actual  struggle  he  was  able  to  keep  from  Cather- 
ine's view,  as  he  had  vowed  to  himself  to  keep  it.  For  after  the 
squire's  departure  Mrs.  Darcy  too  went  joyously  up  to  London 
to  flutter  awhile  through  the  golden  alleys  of  Mayf air ;  and  Els- 
mere was  left  once  more  in  undisturbed  possession  of  the  Mure- 
well  Hbrary.  There  for  awhile  on  every  day— oh,  pitiful  relief ! 
—he  could  hide  himself  from  the  eyes  he  loved. 

But,  after  all,  married  love  allows  of  nothing  but  the  shallow- 
est concealments.  Catherine  had  already  had  one  or  two  alarms. 
Once,  in  Robert's  study,  among  a  tiunbled  mass  of  books  he 
had  pulled  out  in  search  of  something  missing,  and  which  she 
was  putting  in  order,  she  had  come  across  that  very  book  on 
the  Prophecies  which  at  a  critical  moment  had  so  deeply  affect- 
ed Elsmere.  It  lay  open,  and  Catherine  was  caught  by  the 
heading  of  a  section :     The  Messianic  Idea." 

She  began  to  read,  mechanically  at  first,  and  read  about  a 
page.  That  page  so  shocked  a  mind  accustomed  to  a  purely 
traditional  and  mystical  interpretation  of  the  Bible  that  the 


BOBEKT  ELSMEBB. 


book  dropped  abruptly  from  her  hand,  and  she  stood  a  moment 
by  her  husband^s  table,  her  fine  face  pale  and  frowning. 

She  noticed  with  bitterness  Mr.  Wendover's  name  on  the  title- 
page.  Was  it  right  for^Eobert  to  have  such  books?  Was  it 
wise,  was  it  prudent,  for  the  Christian  to  measure  himself 
against  such  antagonism  as  this?  She  wrestled  painfully  with 
the  question.  Oh,  but  I  c^n't  understand,"  she  said  to  her- 
self, with  an  almost  agonized  energy.  It  is  I  who  am  timid, 
f aitkless !  He  must — he  must — know  what  they  say ;  he  must 
have  gone  through  the  dark  places  if  he  is  to  carry  others 
through  them." 

So  she  stilled  and  trampled  on  the  inward  protest.  She 
yearned  to  speak  of  it  to  Robert,  but  something  withheld  her. 
In  her  passionate  wifely  trust  she  could  not  bear  to  seem  to 
question  the  use  he  made  of  his  time  and  thought;  and  a  deli 
cate  moral  scruple  warned  her  she  might  easily  allow  her  dis- 
hke  of  the  Wendover  friendship  to  lead  her  into  exaggeration 
and  injustice. 

But  the  stab  of  that  moment  recurred— dealt  now  by  one  slight 
incident,  now  by  another.  And  after  the  squire's  departure 
Catherine  suddenly  realized  that  the  whole  atmosphere  of  their 
home-Hfe  was  changed. 

Robert  was  giving  himself  to  his  people  with  a  more  scrupu- 
lous energy  than  ever.  Never  had  she  seen  him  so  pitiful,  so 
lull  of  heart  for  every  human  creature.  His  sermons,  with 
their  constant  imaginative  dwelling  on  the  earthly  Hf  e  of  Jesus, 
affected  her  now  with  a  poignancy,  a  pathos,  which  were  almost 
unbearable.  And  his  tenderness  to  her  was  beyond  words. 
But  with  that  tenderness  there  was  constantly  mixed  a  note 
of  remorse,  a  painful  self-depreciation  which  she  could  hardly 
notice  in  speech,  but  which  every  now  and  then  wrung  her 
*  heart.  And  in  his  parish  work  he  often  showed  a  depression, 
an  irritability,  entirely  new  to  her.  He  who  had  always  the 
happiest  power  of  forgetting  to-morrow  all  the  rubs  of  to- 
day, seemed  now  quite  incapable  of  saving  himself,  and  his 
cheerfulness  in  the  old  ways,  nay,  had  developed  a  capacity  for 
sheer  worry  she  had  never  seen  in  him  before.  And  meanwhile 
all  the  old  gossips  of  the  place  spoke  their  mind  freely  to  Cath- 
erine on  the  subject  of  the  rector's  looks,  coupling  their  remarks 
with  a  variety  of  prescriptions,  out  of  which  Robert  did  some- 
times manage  to  get  one  of  his  old  laughs.  His  sleeplessness, 
too,  which  had  always  been  a  constitutional  tendency,  had  b^- 


S80 


BGBEBT  ELSMEBS. 


come  now  so  constant  and  wearing  that  Catherine  began  to  feel 
a  nervous  hatred  of  his  book- work,  and  of  those  long  mornings 
at  the  Hall ;  a  passionate  wish  to  put  an  end  to  it,  and  carry  him 
away  for  a  holiday. 

But  he  would  not  hear  of  the  hoHday,  and  he  could  hardly 
bear  any  talk  of  himself.  And  Catherine  had  been  brought  up 
in  a  school  of  feeling  which  bade  love  be  very  scrupulous,  very 
delicate,  and  which  recognized  in  the  strongest  way  the  right  of 
every  human  soul  to  its  own  privacy,  its  own  reserves.  That 
something  definite  troubled  him  she  was  certain.  What  it  was 
he  clearly  avoided  telling  her,  and  she  could  not  hurt  him  by 
impatience. 

He  would  tell  her  soon— when  it  was  right— she  cried  pitifully, 
to  herself.  Meantime  both  suffered,  she  not  knowing  why, 
clinging  to  each  other  the  while  more  passionately  than  ever. 

One  night,  however,  coming  down  in  her  dressing-gown  into 
the  study  in  search  of  a  Christian  Year"  she  had  left  behind 
her,  she  found  Eobert  with  papers  strewn  before  him,  his  arms 
on  the  table  and  his  head  laid  down  upon  them.  He  looked  up 
as  she  came  in,  and  the  expression  of  his  eyes  drew  her  to  him 
Irresistibly. 

' '  Were  you  asleep,  Eobert  ?  Do  come  to  bed  !" 

He  sat  up,  and  with  a  pathetic  gesture  held  out  his  arms  vO 
her.  She  came  on  to  his  knee,  putting  her  white  arms  round 
his  neck,  while  he  leaned  his  head  against  her  breast. 

*'Are  you  tired  with  all  your  walking  to-day?"  she  said, 
presently,  a  pang  at  her  heart. 

I  am  tired,"  he  said,    but  not  with  walking." 
Does  your  book  worry  you  ?  You  s[houldn't  work  so  hard, 
Robert— you  shouldn't  I" 

He  started. 

Don't  talk  of  it.  Don't  let  us  talk  or  think  at  all,  only 
feell"  ' 

And  he  tightened  his  arms  round  her,  happy  once  more  for 
a  moment  in  this  environment  of  a  perfect  love.  There  was 
silence  for  a  few  moments,  Catherine  feeling  more  and  more 
disturbed  and  anxious. 

Think  of  your  mountains,"  he  said  presently,  his  eyes  still 
pressed  against  her,  "of  High  Fell,  and  the  moonlight,  and  the 
house  where  Mary  Backhouse  died.  Oh  !  Catherine,  I  see  you 
still,  and  shall  always  see  you,  as  I  saw  you  then,  my  angel  of 
healing  and  ol  grace  1" 


BOBERT  BLSMBES.  S81 

too  have  been  thinking  of  her  to-night,'*  said  Catherine, 
|.  uoftly,  *^and  of  the  walk  to  Shanmoor.   This  evening  in  the 
^rden  it  seemed  to  me  as  though  there  were  Westmoreland 
scents  in  the  air  !   I  was  haunted  by  a  vision  of  bracken,  and 
rocks,  and  sheep  browsing  up  the  fell  slopes." 

*^  Oh  for  a  breath  of  the  wind  on  High  Fell !"  cried  Eobert— 
it  was  so  new  to  her,  the  dear  voice  with  this  accent  in  it  of 
yearning  depression  !  ^  ^  I  want  more  of  the  spirit  of  the  mount- 
ains, their  serenity,  their  strength.  Say  me  that  Duddon  son- 
net you  used  to  say  to  me  there,  as  you  said  it  to  me  that  last 
Sunday  before  our  wedding,  when  we  walked  up  the  Shanmoor 
road  to  say  good-bye  to  that  blessed  spot.  Oh  !  how  I  sit  and 
think  of  it  sometimes,  when  hfe  seems  to  be  going  crookedly, 
that  rock  on  the  fell- side  where  I  found  you,  and  caught  you, 
and  snared  you,  my  dove,  forever." 

And  Catherine,  whose  mere  voice  was  as  balm  to  this  man  of 
many  impulses,  repeated  to  him,  softly,  in  the  midnight  silence, 
those  noble  lines  in  which  Wordsworth  has  expressed,  with  the 
reserve  and  yet  the  strength  of  the  great  poet,  the  loftiest 
yearning  of  the  purest  hearts: 

'*  Enough,  if  something  from  our  hand  have  power 
To  live  and  move,  and  serve  the  future  hour, 
And  if,  as  toward  the  silent  tomb  we  go, 
Through  love,  through  hope,  and  faith's  transcendent  dower. 
We  feel  that  we  are  greater  than  we  know.*' 

*'He  has  divined  it  all,"  said  Eobert,  drawing  a  long  breath 
when  she  stopped,  which  seem  to  relax  the  fibers  of  the  inner 
man,  *'  the  fever  and  the  fret  of  human  thought,  the  sense  of 
littleness,  of  impotence,  of  evanescence— and  he  has  soothed  it 
all !" 

Oh,  not  all,  not  all !"  cried  Catherine,  her  look  kindhng, 
and  her  rare  passion  breaking  through;  **how  little  in  com- 
parison !" 

For  her  thoughts  were  with  him  of  whom  it  was  said:  JEZe 
needed  not  that  any  one  should  bear  witness  concerning  man, 
for  he  Jcnew  what  was  in  man."  But  Robertas  only  response 
was  silence  and  a  kind  of  quivering  sigh. 

Robert  I"  she  cried,  pressing  her  cheek  against  his  temple, 
"tell  me,  my  dear,  dear  husband,  what  it  is  troubles  you. 
Something  does— I  am  certain — certain  !" 

**  Catherine— wife  beloved  I"  he  said  to  her,  after  another 


882 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


pause,  m  a  tone  of  strange  tension  she  never  forgot;  ''genera- 
tions of  men  and  women  have  known  what  it  is  to  be  led  spirit- 
ually into  the  desert,  into  that  outer  wilderness  where  even  the 
Lord  was  '  tempted.'  What  am  I  that  I  should  claim  to  escape 
it  ?  And  you  can  not  come  through  it  with  me,  my  darhng— 
no  not  even  you  !  It  is  loneliness— it  is  solitariness  itself—'' 
and  he  shuddered.  '  But  pray  for  me— pi-ay  that  He  may  be 
with  me,  and  that  at  the  end  there  may  be  Hght !" 

He  pressed  her  to  him  convulsively,  then  gently  released  her. 
His  solemn  eyes,  fixed  upon  her  as  she  stood  there  beside  him, 
seemed  to  forbid  her  to  say  a  word  more.  She  stooped ;  she  laid 
her  lips  to  his;  it  was  a  meeting  of  soul  with  soul;  then  she 
went  softly  out,  breaking  the  quiet  of  the  house  by  a  stifled  sob 
as  she  passed  upstaii*s. 

Oh !  but  at  last  she  thought  she  imderstood  him.  She  had 
not  passed  her  girlhood,  side  by  side  with  a  man  of  dehcate 
fiber,  of  melancholy  and  scrupulous  temperament,  and  within 
hearing  of  all  the  natural  interests  of  a  deeply  religious  mind, 
religious  biography,  religious  psychology,  and— within  certain 
sharply  defined  limits— religious  speculation,  without  being 
brought  face  to  face  with  the  black  possibilities  of  ''doubts" 
and  "  difficulties  "  as  barriers  in  the  Christian  path.  Has  not 
almost  every  Christian  of  illustrious  excellence  been  tried  and 
humbled  by  them?  Catherine,  looking  back  upon  her  own 
youth,  could  remember  certain  crises  of  religious  melancholy, 
during  which  she  had  often  dropped  off  to  sleep  at  night  on  a 
pillow  wet  with  tears.  They  had  passed  away  quickly,  and 
forever.  But  she  went  back  to  them  now,  straining  her  eyes 
through  the  darkness  of  her  own  past,  recalling  her  father's 
days  of  spiritual  depression,  and  the  few  difficult  words  she  had 
sometimes  heard  from  him  as  to  those  bitter  times  of  religious 
dryness  and  hopelessness,  by  which  God  chastens  from  time  to 
time  His  most  faithful  and  heroic  souls.  A  half  contempt 
awoke  in  her  for  the  unclouded  serenity  and  confidence  of  her 
own  inner  life.  If  her  own  spiritual  experience  had  gone  deeper, 
she  told  herself  with  the  strangest  self-blame,  she  would  have 
been  able  now  to  understand  Eobert  better— to  help  him  more. 

She  thought  as  she  lay  awake  after  those  painful  moments  in 
the  study,  the  tears  weUing  up  slowly  in  the  darkness,  of  many 
things  that  had  puzzled  her  in  the  past.  She  remembered  the 
book  she  had  seen  on  his  table;  her  thoughts  traveled  over  his 
months  of  intercourse  with  the  squire;  and  the  memory  of  Mr. 


BOBEBT  ELSMEBE. 


383 


Newcome's  attitude  toward  the  man  whom  he  conceived  to  be 
his  Lord's  adversary,  as  contrasted  with  Eobert's,  filled  her 
with  a  shrinking  pain  she  dared  not  analyze. 

Still  all  through,  her  feeling  toward  her  husband  was  in  the 
main  akin  to  that  of  the  English  civilian  at  home  toward  Eng- 
lish soldiers  abroad,  suffering  and  dying  that  England  may  be 
great.  She  had  sheltered  herself  all  her  life  from  those  deadly 
forces  of  unbelief  which  exist  in  Enghsh  society,  by  a  steady 
refusal  to  know  what,  however,  any  educated  university  man 
must  perforce  know.  But  such  a  course  of  action  was  impos- 
sible for  Eobert.  He  had  been  forced  into  the  open,  into  the 
full  tide  of  the  Lord's  battle.  The  chances  of  that  battle  are 
many;  and  the  more  courage  the  more  risk  of  wounds  and 
pain.  But  the  great  Captain  knows— the  great  Captain  does 
not  forget  His  own. 

For  never,  never  had  she  the  smallest  doubts  as  to  the  issue 
of  this  sudden  crisis  ia  her  husband's  consciousness,  even  when 
she  came  nearest  to  apprehending  its  nature.  As  well  might 
she  doubt  the  return  of  daylight  as  dream  of  any  permanent 
eclipse  descending  upon  the  faith  which  had  shone  through 
every  detail  of  Robert's  ardent  impulsive  life,  with  all  its  strug- 
gles, all  its  failings,  all  its  beauty,  since  she  had  known  him 
first.  The  dread  did  not  even  occur  to  her.  In  her  agony  of 
pity  and  reverence  she  thought  of  him  as  passing  through  a 
trial,  which  is  specially  the  believer's  trial— the  chastening  by 
which  God  proves  the  soul  He  loves.  Let  her  only  love  and 
trust  in  patience. 

So  that  day  by  day,  as  Robert's  depression  still  continued, 
Catherine  surrounded  him  with  the  tenderest  and  wisest  affec- 
tion. Her  quiet  common-sense  made  itself  heard,  forbidding 
her  to  make  too  much  of  the  change  in  him,  which  might,  after 
all,  she  thought,  be  partly  explained  by  the  mere  physical  re- 
sults of  his  long  strain  of  body  and  mind  during  the  Mile  End 
epidemic.  And  for  the  rest  she  would  not  argue ;  she  would  laot 
inquire.  She  only  prayed  that  she  might  so  lead  the  Christian 
life  beside  him,  that  the  Lord's  tenderness,  the  Lord's  consola- 
tion,  might  shine  upon  him  through  her.  It  had  never  been  her 
wont  to  speak  to  him  much  about  his  own  influence,  his  own 
effect,  in  the  parish.  To  the  austerer  Christian  considerations 
of  this  kind  are  forbidden :  ^'It  is  not  I,  but  Christ  that  work- 
Hh  in  me."  But  now,  whenever  she  came  across  any  striking 
<race  of  his  power  over  the  weak  or  the  impure,  the  sick  or  iksk 


384 


EOBEET  ELSMKRK. 


sad,  she  would  in  some  way  make  it  known  to  him,  offering  it 
to  him  in  her  dehcate  tenderness,  as  though  it  were  a  gift  that 
the  Father  had  laid  in  her  hand  for  him— a  token  that  the 
Master  was  still  indeed  with  His  servant,  and  that  all  was 
fundamentally  well! 

And  so  much,  perhaps,  the  contact  with  his  wife's  faith,  the 
power  of  her  love,  wrought  in  Eobert,  that  during  these  weeks 
and  months  he  also  never  lost  his  own  certainty  of  emergence 
from  the  shadow  which  had  overtaken  him.  And,  indeed, 
driven  on  from  day  to  day  as  he  was  by  an  imperious  intel- 
lectual thirst  which  would  be  satisfied,  the  religion  of  the  heart, 
the  imaginative  emotional  habit  of  years,  that  incessant  drama 
which  the  soul  enacts  with  the  divine  powers  to  which  it  feels 
itself  committed,  lived  and  persisted  through  it  all.  Feeling 
was  untouched.  The  heart  was  still  passionately  on  the  side  of 
all  its  old  loves  and  adorations,  still  blindly  trustful  that  in  the 
end,  by  some  compromise  as  yet  unseen,  they  would  be  restored 
to  it  intact. 

Some  time  toward  the  end  of  July  Eobert  was  coming  home 
from  the  Hall  before  lunch,  tired  and  worn,  as  the  morsing 
always  left  him,  and  meditating  some  fresh  sheets  of  the  squire's 
proofs  which  had  been  in  his  hands  that  morning.  On  the 
road  crossing  that  to  the  rectory  he  suddenly  saw  Eeginald 
Newcome,  thinner  and  whiter  than  ever,  striding  along  as  fast 
as  cassock  and  cloak  would  let  him,  his  eyes  on  the  ground, 
and  his  wide-awake  drawn  over  them.  He  and  Elsmere  had 
scarcely  met  for  months,  and  Robert  had  lately  made  up  his 
ttiind  that  Newcome  was  distinctly  less  friendly,  and  wished  to 

^^Msmere  had  touched  his  arm  before  Newcome  had  perceived 
toy  one  near  him !   Then  he  drew  back  with  a  start. 

Elsmere,  you  here!  I  had  an  idea  you  were  away  for  a 

holiday!" 

Oh,  dear,  no !"  said  Robert,  smiling.  I  may  get  away  m 
September,  perhaps— not  till  then." 

*^Mr.  Wendover  at  home?"  said  the  other,  his  eyes  turning 
to  the  Hall,  of  which  the  chimneys  were  just  visible  from 
where  they  stood. 

*'No,  he  is  abroad." 

*'You  and  he  have  made  friends,  I  understand,"  said  the 
Other,  abruptly,  his  eagle  lock  returning  to  Elsmere;    I  hear 
you  as  always  together." 


BOBERT  ELSMEBS. 


385 


We  have  made  friends,  and  we  walk  a  great  deal  when  the 
squire  is  here,"  said  Robert;  meeting  Newcome's  harshness  of 
tone  with  a  bright  dignity.  **Mr.  Wendover  has  even  been 
doing  something  for  us  in  the  village.  You  should  come  and 
see  the  new  institute.  The  roof  is  on,  and  we  shall  open  it  in 
A^igust  or  September.  The  best  building  of  the  kind  in  the 
cruntry  by  far,  and  Mr.  Wendover's  gift." 

I  suppose  you  use  the  library  a  great  deal?"  said  Newcome, 
paying  no  attention  to  these  remarks,  and  still  eying  his  com- 
panion closely, 
great  deal." 

Robert  had  at  that  moment  under  his  arm  a  German  treatise 
on  the  history  of  the  Logos  doctrine,  which,  afterward,  looking 
back  onthelittle  scene,  he  thought  it  probable  Newcome  recog- 
nized. They  turned  toward  the  rectory  together,  Newcome 
still  asking  abrupt  questions  as  to  the  squire,  the  length  of 
time  he  was  to  be  a?7ay,  Elsmere's  work,  parochial  and  literary, 
during  the  past  six  months,  the  numbers  of  his  Sunday  congre- 
gation, of  his  comjaunicants,  etc.  Elsmere  bore  his  catechism 
^vith  perfect  tem.per,  though  Newcome's  manner  had  in  it .  a 
Grange  and  almost  judicial  imperativeness. 

''Elsmere,"  said  his  questioner  presently,  after  a  pause,  ''I 
xm  going  to  have  a  retreat  for  priests  at  the  Clergy  House  next 
.nonth.  Father  H  ,"  mentioning  a  famous  High  Church- 
man, ''will  conduct  it.  You  would  do  me  a  special  favor"— 
4nd  suddenly  the  face  softened,  and  shone  with  all  its  old  mag- 
netism on  Elsmere—"  if  you  would  come.  I  believe  you  would 
find  nothing  to  dislike  in  it,  or  in  our  rule,  which  is  a  most 
simple  one.  " 

Robert  smiled,  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  other's  arm. 

"No,  Newcome,  no;  I  am  in  no  mood  for  H  ." 

The  High  Churchman  looked  at  him  with  a  quick  and  pain* 
ful  anxiety  visible  in  the  stern  eyes. 
"Will  you  tell  me  what  that  means?" 

"It  means,"  said  Robert,  clasping  his  hands  tightly  behind 
him,  his  pace  slackening  a  little  to  meet  that  of  Newcome—"  it 
means  that  if  you  will  give  me  your  prayers,  Newcome,  your 
companionship  sometimes,  your  pity  always,  I  will  thank  you 
from  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  But  I  am  in  a  state  just  now 
when  I  must  fight  my  battles  for  myself,  and  in  God's  sight 
only!" 


386  EGBERT  ELSMERE. 

It  was  the  first  burst  ot  confidence  which  had  passed  his  lip? 
to  any  one  but  Catherine. 

Newcome  stood  stiU,  a  tremor  of  strong  emotion  runmng 
through  the  emaciated  face. 

*^You  are  in  trouble,  Elsmere;  I  felt  it,  I  knew  it,  when  I 
first  saw  you!" 

Yes,  I  am  in  trouble,"  said  Eobert,  quietly. 
Opinions?" 

Opinions,  I  suppose-or  facts,"  said  Robert,  his  arms  drop- 
ping wearily  beside  him.  Have  you  ever  known  what  it  is 
to  be  troubled  in  mind,  I  wonder,  Newcome?" 

And  he  looked  at  his  companion  with  a  sudden  pitiful  curi- 
osity. 

A  kind  of  flash  passed  over  Mr.  Newcome  s  face. 

''Have  I  ever  known  r  he  repeated,  vaguely,  and  then  he 
drew  his  thin  hand,  the  hand  of  the  ascetic  and  the  mystic, 
hastily  across  his  eyes,  and  was  silent— his  hps  moving,  his 
ga^e  on  the  ground,  his  whole  aspect  that  of  a  man  wrought 
out  of  himself  by  a  sudden  passion  of  memory. 

Robert  watched  him  with  surprise,  and  was  just  speaking, 
when  Mr.  Newcome  looked  up,  every  drawn  attenuated  feat- 
ure working  painfuUy.  ,  1 

**Did  you  never  ask  yourself,  Elsmere,"  he  said,  slowly, 
''  what  it  was  drove  me  from  the  bar  and  journalism  to  the 
East  End?  Do  you  think  I  don't  know,"  and  his  voice  rose, 
his  eyes  flamed,  ''what  black  devil  it  is  that  is  gnawing  at 
your  heart  now?  Why,  man,  I  have  been  through  darker  gulfs 
of  hell  than  you  have  ever  sounded !  Many  a  night  I  have  felt 
myself  mad— mad  of  doubt-Si  castaway  on  a  shoreless  sea; 
doubting  not  only  God  or  Christ,  but  myself,  the  soul,  the  very 
existence  of  good.   I  found  only  one  way  out  of  it,  and  you  wiU 

iand  only  one  way."  .       ,     ^i.  • 

The  Hthe  hand  caught  Robert's  arm  impetuously-the  voice 
with  its  accent  of  fierce  conviction  was  at  his  ear. 

"  Trample  on  yourself !  Pray  down  the  demon,  fast,  scourge, 
kill  the  body,  that  the  soul  may  live !  What  are  we,  miserable 
worms,  that  we  should  defy  the  Most  High,  that  we  should 
set  our  wretched  faculties  ag'ainst  His  Omnipotence?  Submit 
-submit-humble  yourself,  my  brother !  Fling  away  the  free- 
dom which  is  your  ruin.  There  is  no  freedom  for  man.  Either 
a  slave  to  Christ,  or  a  slave  to  his  own  hists-there  is  no  other 
choice.   Go  away;  exchange  your  work  here  for  a  time  tor 


ROBERT  ELSMBRB.  387 

work  in  London.  You  have  too  much  leisure  here:  Satan  has 
too  much  opportunity.  I  f orsaw  it— I  f orsaw  it  when  you 
and  I  first  met.  I  felt  I  had  a  message  for  you,  and  here  I  de- 
liver it.  In  the  Lord's  name,  I  bid  you  fly,  bid  you  yield  in 
time.  Better  to  be  the  Lord's  captive  than  the  Lord's  he- 
trayerr 

The  wasted  form  was  drawn  up  to  its  full  height,  the  arm 
was  outstretched,  the  long  cloak  fell  back  from  it  in  long  folds 
—voice  and  eye  were  majesty  in  itself.  Robert  had  a  tremor 
of  responsive  passion.  How  easy  it  sounded,  how  tempting, 
to  cut  the  knot,  to  mutilate  and  starve  the  rebellious  intellect 
which  would  assert  itself  against  the  soul's  purest  instincts  I 
Newcomb  had  done  it— why  not  he? 

And  then,  suddenly,  as  be  stood  gazing  at  his  companion, 
the  spring  sun,  and  murmur  all  about  them,  another  face,  an- 
other life,  another  message,  flashed  on  his  inmost  sense— the 
face  and  life  of  Henry  Grey.  Words  torn  from  their  context, 
but  full  for  him  of  intensest  meaning,  passed  rapidly  through 
his  mind:  God  is  not  wisely  trusted  when  declared  unintelli- 
gible. "  * '  Such  honor  rooted  in  dishonor  stands;  such  faith  un- 
faithful  makes  us  falsely  true,''  God  is  forever  reason:  and 
His  communication^  His  revelation^  is  reason." 

He  turned  away  with  a  slight  sad  shake  of  the  head.  The 
spell  was  broken.  Mr.  Ne  wcome's  arm  dropped,  and  he  moved 
somberly  on  besides  Eobert— the  hand,  which  held  a  little  book 
of  Hours  against  his  cloak,  trembling  slightly. 

At  the  rectory  gate  he  stopped. 

'^Good-bye — I  must  go  home." 

''You  won't  come  in?  No,  no,  Newcomb;  believe  me,  I  am 
no  rash  careless  egotist,  risking  wantonly  the  most  precious 
things  in  life !  But  the  call  is  on  me,  and  I  must  follow  it. 
All  life  is  God's,  and  all  thought— not  only  a  fraction  of  it.  Hb 
can  not  let  me  wander  very  far !" 

But  the  cold  fingers  he  held  so  warmly  dropped  from  his, 
and  Newcome  turned  away. 

A  week  afterward,  or  thereabouts,  Robert  had  in  some  sense 
followed  Newcome's  counsel.  Admonished  perhaps  by  sheer 
physical  weakness,  as  much  as  by  anything  else,  he  had  for 
the  moment  laid  down  his  arms;  he  had  yielded  to  an  invad- 
ing feebleness  of  the  will,  which  refused,  as  it  were,  to  carry 
on  the  struggle  any  longer,  at  such  a  life-destroying  pitch  of 
^nsity.   The  intellectual  oppression  of  itself  brought  about 


388 


EGBERT  ELSMEEE. 


wild  reaction  and  recoil,  and  a  passionate  appeal  to  that  in- 
ward witness  of  the  SQul  which  holds  its  own  long  after  the 
reason  has  practically  ceased  to  struggle. 

It  came  about  in  this  way.  One  morning  he  stood  reading 
in  the  window  of  the  library  the  last  of  the  squire's  letters.  It 
contained  a  short  but  masterly  analysis  of  the  mental  habits 
and  idiosyncrasies  of  St.  Paul,  apropos  of  St.  Paul's  witness  to 
the  Resurrection.  Every  now  and  then,  as  Elsmere  turned 
the  pages,  the  orthodox  protest  would  assert  itself ,  the  ortho- 
dox arguments  make  themselves  felt  as  though  in  mechanical, 
involuntary  protest.  But  their  force  and  vitality  were  gone. 
Between  the  Paul  of  AngUcan  theology  and  the  fiery,  faUible 
man  of  genius— so  weak  lo^cally,  so  strong  in  poetry,  in 
rhetoric,  in  moral  passion,  whose  portrait  has  been  drawn  for 
us  hy  a  free  and  temperate  criticism— the  rector  knew,  in  a 
sort  of  dull  way,  that  his  choice  was  made.  The  one  picture 
carried  reason  and  imagination  with  it;  the  other  contented 
neither. 

But  as  he  put  down  the  letter  something  seemed  to  snap 
within  him.  Some  chord  of  physical  endurance  gave  way. 
For  five  months  he  had  been  living  intellectually  at  a  speed 
no  man  maintains  with  impunity,  and  this  letter  of  the 
squire's,  with  its  imperious  demands  upon  the  tired,  irritable 
brain,  was  the  last  straw. 

He  sunk  down  on  the  oriel  seat,  the  letter  dropping  from  his 
hands.  Outside,  the  little  garden,  now  a  mass  of  red  and  pink 
roses,  the  hill  and  the  distant  stretches  of  park  were  wrapped 
in  a  thick  sultry  mist,  through  which  a  dim,  far-off  sunlight 
struggled  on  to  the  library  floor,  and  lay  in  ghostly  patches 
on  the  poHshed  boards  and  lower  ranges  of  books. 

The  simplest  rehgious  thoughts  began  to  flow  over  him— the 
simplest  childish  words  of  prayer  were  on  his  lips.  He  felt 
himself  delivered,  he  knew  not  how  or  why. 

He  rose  dehberately,  laid  the  squire's  letter  among  his  other 
papers,  and  tied  them  up  carefully;  then  he  took  up  the  books 
which  lay  piled  on  the  squire's  writing-table:  all  those  volumes 
of  Grerman,  French,  and  English  criticism,  liberal  or  apolo- 
getic, which  he  had  been  accumulating  round  him  day  by  day 
with  a  feverish,  toilsome  impartial^'ty  and  began  rapidly  and 
methodically  to  put  them  back  in  their  places  on  the  shelves. 
I  have  done  too  much  thinking,  too  much  reading,"  he  was 


r 

ROBERT  ELSMERE.  889 

saying  to  himself  as  he  went  through  his  task.  Now  let  it 
be  the  turn  of  something  else!" 

And  still  as  he  handled  the  books,  it  was  as  though  Cath- 
erine's figure  glided  backward  and  forward  beside  him,  across 
the  smooth  floor,  as  though  her  hand  were  on  his  arm,  her 
eyes  shining  into  his.  Ah— he  knew  well  what  it  was  had  made 
the  sharpest  sting  of  this  wrestle  through  which  he  had  been 
passing!  It  was  not  merely  reHgious  dread,  religious  shame; 
that  terror  of  disloyalty  to  the  divine  images  which  have  filled 
the  soul's  inmost  shrine  since  its  first  entry  into  consciousness, 
such  as  every  good  man  feels  in  a  like  strait. .  This  had  been 
strong  indeed ;  but  men  are  men,  and  love  is  love!  Ay,  it  was 
to  the  dark  certainty  of  Catherine's  misery  that  every  advance 
in  knowledge  and  intellectual  power  had  brought  him  nearer. 
It  was  from  that  certainty  that  he  now,  and  for  the  last  time, 
recoiled.   It  was  too  much.   It  could  not  be  bomCc 

He  walked  home,  counting  up  the  engagements  of  the  next 
few  weeks— the  school-treat,  two  club  field-days,  a  sermon  in 
the  country  town,  the  probable  opening  of  the  new  Workmen's 
Institute,  and  so  on.  Oh!  to  be  through  them  all  and  away, 
away  amid  Alpine  scents  and  silences.  He  stood  a  moment 
beside  the  gray,  slowly  moving  river,  half  hidden  beneath  the 
rank  fiower  growth,  the  tansy  and  willow-herb,  the  luxuriant 
elder  and  trailing  brambles  of  its  August  banks,  and  thought 
with  hungry  passion  of  the  clean-swept  Alpine  pasture,  the  fir- 
woods,  and  the  tameless  mountain  streams.  In  three  weeks 
or  less  he  and  Catherine  should  be  chmbing  the  Jaman  or  the 
Dent  Du  Midi.  And  till  then  he  would  want  all  his  time  for 
men  and  women.   Books  should  hold  him  no  more. 

Catherine  only  put  her  arms  round  his  neck  in  silence  when 
he  told  her.  The  relief  was  too  great  for  words.  He,  too,  held 
her  close,  saying  nothing.  But  that  night,  for  the  first  time 
for  weeks,  Elsmere's  wife  slept  in  peace  and  woke  without 
dread  of  the  day  before  her. 


BOOK  IV.— CRISIS. 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 

j  The  next  fortnight  was  a  time  of  truce.  Elsmere  neither 
read  nor  reasoned.  He  spent  his  days  in  the  school,  in  the  vil- 
lage,  pottering  about  the  Mile  End  cottages,  or  the  new  insti- 


390  EGBERT  ELSMKRE. 

tute— sometimes  fishing,  sometimes  passing  long  summer  bourfl 
on  the  commons  with  his  club  boys,  hunting  the  ponds  for  cad- 
dises, newts,  and  water-beetles,  peering  into  the  furze-bushes 
for  second  broods,  or  watching  the  sand-martins  in  the  gravel- 
pits,  and  trudging  home  at  night  in  the  midst  of  an  escort  of 
enthusiasts,  all  of  them  with  pockets  as  full  and  miiy  as  his 
own,  to  deposit  the  treasures  of  the  day  in  the  club-room. 
Once  more  the  rector,  though  physically  perhaps  less  ardent 
than  of  yore,  was  the  Hfe  of  the  party,  and  a  certain  awe  and 
strangeness  which  had  developed  in  his  boys'  minds  toward 
him,  during  the  last  few  weeks,  passed  away. 

It  was  curious  that  in  these  days  he  would  neither  sit  nor 
walk  alone  if  he  could  help  it.  Catherine  or  a  stray  parishioner 
was  almost  always  with  him.  All  the  while,  vaguely,  in  the 
depths  of  consciousness,  there  was  the  knowledge  that  behind 
this  piece  of  quiet  water  on  which  his  life  was  now  sailing, 
there  lay  storm  and  darkness,  and  that  in  front  loomed  fresh 
possibilities  of  tempest.  He  knew,  in  a  way,  that  it  was  a 
treacherous  peace  which  had  overtaken  him.  And  yet  it  was 
peace.  The  pressure  exerted  by  the  will  had  temporarily  given 
way,  and  the  deepest  forces  of  the  man's  being  had  reasserted 
themselves  He  could  feel  and  love  and  pray  again ;  and  Cath- 
erine, seeirg  the  old  glow  in  the  eyes,  the  old  spring  in  the 
step,  'made  the  whole  of  Hfe  one  thank-offering. 

On  the  <^>vening  following  that  moment  of  reaction  m  the 
Murewell  Ubrary,  Robert  had  written  to  the  squire.  His  letter 
had  beer  practically  a  withdrawal  from  the  correspondence. 

^^I  fipd,"  he  wrote,  ''that  I  have  been  spending  too  much 
time  an<l  energy  lately  on  these  critical  matters.  It  seems  to 
me  tha*.  my  work  as  a  clergyman  has  suffered.  Nor  can  I  deny 
that  your  book  and  your  letters  have  been  to  me  a  source  of 
great  trouble  of  mind.  .  r  ^ 

-My  heart  is  where  it  was,  but  my  head  is  often  confused. 
Let  controversy  rest  awhile.  My  wife  says  I  want  a  holiday ; 
I  thixik  so  myself,  and  we  are  off  in  three  weeks ;  not,  however, 
I  hope,  before  we  have  welcomed  you  home  again,  and  got  you 
to  ^pen  the  new  institute,  which  is  already  dazzling  the  eyes 
of  the  village  by  its  size  and  splendor,  and  the  white  pamt  that 
Harris  the  builder  has  been  lavishing  upon  it."  ^ 
Ten  days  later,  rather  earlier  than  was  expected,  the  squirt 
and  Mrs.  Darcy  were  at  home  again.  Robert  re-entered  the 
^reat  house  the  morning  after  their  arrival  with  a  strange  re- 


ROBERT  ELSMEEB* 


391 


luctance.  Its  glow  and  magnificence,  the  warm,  perfumed  air 
of  the  hall,  brought  back  a  sense  of  old  oppressions,  and  he 
walked  down  the  passage  to  the  library  with  a  sinking  heart. 
There  he  found  the  squire  busy  as  usual  with  one  of  those 
fresh  cargoes  of  books  which  always  accompanied  liirn  on  any 
homeward  journey.  He  was  more  brown,  more  wrinkled, 
more  shrunken;  more  full  of  force,  of  harsh  epigram,  of  grim 
anecdote  than  ever.^  Kobert  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  table  laugh- 
ing over  his  stories  of  French  Orientalists,  or  Eoman  cardinals, 
or  modern  Greek  professors,  enjoying  the  impartial  sarcasm 
which  one  of  the  greatest  of  savants  was  always  ready  to  pour 
out  upon  his  brethren  of  the  craft. 

The  squire,  however,  was  never  genial  for  a  moment  during 
the  interview.  He  did  not  mention  his  book  nor  Elsmere's 
letter.  But  EJsmere  suspected  in  him  a  good  deal  of  suppressed 
irritability ;  and,  as  after  awhile  he  abruptly  ceased  to  talk, 
the  visit  grew  difficult. 

The  rector  walked  home  feeling  restless  and  depressed.  The 
mind  had  begun  to  work  again.  It  was  only  by  a  great  effort 
that  he  could  turn  his  thoughts  from  the  squire,  and  all  that 
the  squire  had  meant  to  him  during  the  past  year,  and  so  woo 
back  to  himself    the  shy  bird  Peace." 

Mr.  Wendover  watched  the  door  close  behind  him,  and  then 
went  back  to  his  work  with  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

Once  a  priest,  always  a  priest.  What  a  fool  I  was  to  forget 
it !  You  think  you  make  an  impression  on  the  mystic,  and  at 
the  bottom  there  is  always  something  which  defies  you  and 
common  sense.  *  Two  and  two  do  not,  and  shall  not,  make 
four,' he  said  to  himself,  in  a  mincing  voice  of  angry  sarcasm. 

^  It  would  give  me  too  much  pain  that  they  should.'  Well, 
and  so  I  suppose  what  might  have  been  a  rational  friendship 
will  go  by  the  board  like  everything  else.  What  can  make  the 
man  shilly-shally  in  this  way  ?  He  is  convinced  already,  as  he 
knows— those  later  letters  were  conclusive!  His  living,  per- 
haps, and  his  work!  Not  for  the  money's  sake -there  never 
was  a  more  incredibly  disinterested  person  born.  But  his 
work  ?  Well,  who  is  to  hinder  his  work  ?  Will  he  be  the  first 
parson  in  the  Church  of  England  who  looks  after  the  poor  and 
holds  his  tongue  ?  If  you  can't  speak  your  mind,  it  is  some- 
thing at  any  rate  to  possess  one— nine  tenths  of  the  clergy  being 
without  the  appendage.  But  Elsmere— pshaw!  he  will  go 
muddling  on  to  the  end  of  the  obapteri" 


392 


BOBEBT  ELSMEBE. 


The  squire,  indeed,  was  like  a  hunter  whose  prey  escapee  him 
at  the  very  moment  of  capture,  and  there  grew  on  him  a  mock- 
ing, aggressive  mood  which  Elsmere  often  found  hard  to  bear. 

One  natural  symptom  of  it  was  his  renewed  churlishness  as 
to  all  local  matters.  Elsmere  one  afternoon  spent  an  hour  in 
trying  to  persuade  him  to  open  the  new  institute. 

What  on  earth  do  you  want  me  for  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Wend- 
over,  standing  before  the  fire  in  the  library,  the  Medusa  head 
peering  over  his  shoulder.  You  know  perfectly  well  that  all 
the  gentry  about  here— I  suppose  you  wiU  have  some  of  them — 
regard  me  as  an  old  reprobate,  and  the  poor  people,  I  imagine, 
as  a  kind  of  ogre.  To  me  it  doesn't  matter  a  twopenny  damn 
— I  apologize ;  it  was  the  Duke  of  Wellington's  favorite  stand- 
ard of  value— but  I  can't  see  what  good  it  can  do  either  you  or 
the  village,  under  the  circumstances,  that  I  should  stand  on 
my  head  for  the  popular  edification." 

Elsmere,  however,  merely  stood  his  ground,  arguing  and 
bantering,  till  the  squire  grudgingly  gave  way.  This  time, 
after  he  departed,  Mr.  Wendover,  instead  of  going  to  his  work, 
still  stood  gloomily  ruminating  in  front  of  the  fire.  His  frown- 
ing eyes  wandered  round  the  great  room  before  him.  For  the 
first  time  he  was  conscious  that  now,  as  soon  as  the  charm  of 
Elsmere's  presence  was  withdrawn,  his  working  hours  were 
doubly  solitary;  that  his  loneliness  weighed  upon  him  more; 
and  that  it  mattered  to  him  appreciably  whether  that  young 
man  went  or  stayed.  The  stirring  of  a  new  sensation,  how- 
ever— unparalleled  since  the  brief  days  when  even  Bobert 
Wendover  had  his  friends  and  his  attractions  Hke  other  men- 
was  soon  lost  in  renewed  chafing  at  Elsmere's  absurdities, 
the  squire  had  been  at  fii^t  perfectly  content — so  he  told  him- 
self—to  limit  the  field  of  their  intercourse,  and  would  have  been 
content  to  go  on  doing  so.  But  Elsmere  himseK  had  invited 
freedom  of  speech  between  them. 

I  would  have  given  him  my  best,"  Mr.  Wendover  reflected, 
impatiently.  I  could  have  handed  on  to  him  all  I  shall  never 
use,  and  he  might  use,  admirably.  And  now  we  might  as  well 
be  on  the  terms  we  were  to  begin  with  for  all  the  good  I  get 
out  of  him,  or  he  out  of  me.  Clearly  nothing  but  cowardice! 
He  can  not  face  the  intellectual  change,  and  he  must,  I  suppose, 
dread  lest  it  should  affect  his  work.  Good  God,  what  nonsense  I 
As  if  any  one  inquired  what  an  English  parson  believed  nowa- 
days, so  long  as  he  perform^  etll  the  usual  antics  decently  I" 


KOBEBT  ELSMEEB.  898 

And,  meanwlnle,  it  never  occurred  to  the  squire  that  Elsmere 
had  a  wife,  and  a  pious  one.  Catherine  had  heen  dropped  out 
of  his  calculation  as  to  Elsmere's  future,  at  a  very  early  stage. 

The  following  afternoon  Eohert,  coming  home  from  a  round, 
found  Catherine  out,  and  a  note  awaiting  him  from  the  Hall. 

"  Can  you  and  Mrs.  Elsmere  come  in  to  tea?"  wrote  the  squire. 
Madame  de  Netteville  is  here,  and  one  or  two  others." 

Eohert  grumbled  a  good  deal,  looked  for  Catherine  to  devise 
an  excuse  for  him,  could  not  find  her,  and  at  last  reluctantly 
set  out  again  alone. 

He  was  tired  and  his  mood  was  heavy.  As  he  trudged 
through  the  park  he  never  once  noticed  the  soft  sun-flooded 
distance,  the  shining  loops  of  the  river,  the  feeding  deer,  or  any 
,of  those  natural  witcheries  to  which  eye  and  sense  were  gener- 
ally so  responsive.  The  laborers  going  home,  the  children — 
with  aprons  full  of  crab-apples,  and  lips  dyed  by  the  first  black- 
berries—who passed  him,  got  but  an  absent  smile  or  salute  from 
the  rector.  The  interval  of  exaltation  and  recoil  was  over.  The 
ship  of  the  mind  was  once  more  laboring  in  aUen  and  dreary 
seas. 

He  roused  himself  to  remember  that  he  had  been  curious  to 
see  Mme.  de  Netteville.  She  was  an  old  friend  of  the  squire's, 
the  holder  of  a  London  salon,  much  more  exquisite  and  select 
than  anything  Lady  Charlotte  could  show. 

She  had  the  same  thing  in  Paris  before  the  war,"  the  squire 
explained.  Eenan  gave  me  a  card  to  her.  An  extraordinary 
woman.  No  particular  originality;  but  one  of  the  best  persons 
'  to  consult  about  ideas,'  like  Joubert's  Madame  de  Beaumont, 
I  ever  saw.  Eeceptiveness  itself.  A  beauty,  too,  or  was  one, 
and  a  bit  of  a  sphinx,  which  adds  to  the  attraction.  Mystery 
becomes  a  woman  vastly.  One  suspects  her  of  adventures 
just  enough  to  find  her  society  doubly  piquant." 

Vincent  directed  him  to  the  upper  terrace,  whither  tea  had 
been  taken.  This  terrace,  which  was  one  of  the  features  of 
Murewell,  occupied  the  top  of  the  yew -clothed  hill  on  which 
the  library  looked  out.  Evelyn  himself  had  planned  it.  Along 
its  upper  side  ran  one  of  the  most  beautiful  old  walls,  broken 
by  niches  and  statues,  tapestried  with  roses  and  honeysuckle, 
and  opening  in  the  center  to  reveal  Evelyn's  darling  conceit  of 
all— a  semicircular  space^  holding  a  fountain,  and  leading  to  a 
grotto.   The  grotto  had  been  scooped  out  of  the  hill  ;  it  was 


394 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


peopled  with  dim  figures  of  fauns  and  nymphs  who  showed 
white  amid  its  moist  greenery ;  and  in  front  a  marble  Silence 
drooped  over  the  fountain,  which  held  gold  and  silver  fish  in 
a  singularly  clear  water.  Outside  ran  the  long  stretch  of  level 
turf,  edged  with  a  jeweled  rim  of  flowers;  and  as  the  hill  fell 
steeply  imderneath,  the  terrace  was  like  a  high  green  platform 
raised  into  air,  in  order  that  a  Wendover  might  see  his  domain, 
which  from  thence  lay  for  miles  spread  out  before  him. 

Here,  beside  the  fountain,  were  gathered  the  squire,  Mrs. 
Darcy,  Madame  de  Netteville,  and  two  unknown  men.  One 
of  them  was  introduced  to  Elsmere  as  Mr.  Spooner,  and  recog- 
nized by  him  as  a  fellow  of  the  Royal  Society,  a  famous  mathe- 
matician, skeptic,  bo7i  vivant,  and  sayer  of  good  things.  The 
other  was  a  young  Liberal  Catholic,  the  author  of  a  remarkable 
collection  of  essays  on  mediaeval  subjects  in  which  the  squire, 
treating  the  man's  opinions  of  coui'se  as  of  no  account,  had  in- 
stantly recognized  the  note  of  the  true  scholar.  A  pale,  small, 
hectic  creature,  possessed  of  that  restles  energy  of  mind  which 
often  goes  with  the  heightened  temperature  of  consumption. 

Eobert  took  a  seat  by  Mme.  de  Netteville,  whose  appearance 
was  picturesqueness  itself.  Her  dress,  a  skillful  mixture  of  black 
and  creamy  yellow,  lay  about  her  in  folds,  as  soft,  as  carelessly 
effective  as  her  manner.  Her  plumed  hat  shadowed  a  face 
which  was  no  longer  young  in  such  a  way  as  to  hide  all  the 
lines  possible;  while  the  half  light  brought  admirably  out  the 
rich,  dark  smoothness  of  the  tints,  the  black  luster  of  the  eyes. 
A  delicate  blue- veined  hand  lay  upon  her  knee,  and  Robert 
was  conscious  after  ten  minutes  or  so  that  all  her  movements, 
which  seemed  at  first  merely  slow  and  languid,  were  in  reality 
singularly  full  of  decision  and  purpose. 

She  was  not  easy  to  talk  to  on  a  first  acquaintance.  R,obert 
felt  that  she  was  studying  him,  and  was  not  so  much  at  his 
ease  as  usual,  partly  owing  to  fatigue  and  mental  worry. 

She  asked  him  little  abrupt  questions  about  the  neighbor- 
hood, his  parish,  his  work,  in  a  soft  tone  which  had,  however, 
a  distinct  aloofness,  even  hauteur.  His  answers,  on  the  other 
hand,  were  often  a  trifle  reckless  and  off  hand.  He  was  in  a 
mood  to  be  impatient  with  a  mondaine's  languid  inquiries  into 
clerical  work,  and  it  seemed  to  him  the  squire's  description 
had  been  overdone. 

^'So  you  try  to  civilize  your  peasants,"  she  said  at  last, 
"  Does  it  succeed— is  it  worth  while?" 


EOBEET  ELSMEEB. 


395 


**That  depends  upon  your  general  ideas  of  what  is  worth 
while,"  he  answered,  smihng. 

Oh,  everything  is  worth  while  that  passes  the  time,"  she 
said,  hurriedly.  The  clergy  of  the  old  regime  went  througk 
life  half  asleep.  That  was  their  way  of  passing  it.  Your  way, 
being  a  modem,  is  to  bustle  and  try  experiments." 

Her  eyes,  half  closed  but  none  the  less  provocative,  ran  over 
Elsmere's  keen  face  and  pUant  frame.  An  atmosphere  of  in- 
tellectual and  social  assumption  inwrapped  her,  which  an- 
noyed Robert  in  much  the  same  way  as  Langham's  philosophi- 
cal airs  were  wont  to  do.  He  was  drawn  without  knowing  it 
into  a  match  of  wits  wherein  his  strokes,  if  they  lacked  the 
finish  and  subtlety  of  hers,  showed  certainly  no  lack  of  sharp- 
ness or  mental  resource.  Mme.  de  Netteville's  tone  insensibly 
changed,  her  manner  quickened,  her  great  eyes  gradually  un- 
closed. 

Suddenly,  as  they  were  in  the  middle  of  a  skirmish  as  to  the 
reality  of  influence,  Mme.  de  Netteville  paradoxically  main- 
taining that  no  human  being  had  ever  really  converted,  trans- 
formed, or  convinced  another,  the  voice  of  young  Wishart, 
shrOl  and  tremulous,  rose  above  the  general  level  of  talk. 

I  am  quite  ready ;  I  am  not  the  least  afraid  of  a  definition. 
Theology  is  organized  knowledge  in  the  field  of  religion,  a 
science  like  any  other  science !" 

Certainly,  my  dear  sir,  certainly,"  said  Mr.  Spooner,  lean- 
ing forward  with  his  hands  round  his  knees,  and  speaking  with 
the  most  elegant  and  good-humored  sang  froid  imaginable, 
**the  science  of  the  world's,  ghosts  I  lean  not  imagine  any 
more  fascinating." 

**Well,"  said  Mme.  de  Netteville  to  Robert,  with  a  deep 
breath,  that  was  a  remark  to  have  hurled  at  you  all  at  once 
out-of-doors  on  a  summer's  afternoon !  Oh,  Mr.  Spooner  1"  she 
said,  raising  her  voice,  ''don't  play  the  heretic  here  1  There  is 
no  fun  in  it ;  there  are  too  many  with  you." 

''I  did  not  begin  it,  my  dear  madame,  and  your  reproach  is 
unjust.  On  one  side  of  me  Archbishop  Manning's  fidus 
Achates,^^  and  the  speaker  took  off  his  large  straw  hat  and 
gracefully  waved  it— first  to  the  right,  then  to  the  left.  *'  On 
the  other,  the  rector  of  the  parish.  'Cannon  to  right  of  me, 
cannon  to  left  of  me.'  I  submit  my  courage  is  unimpeachable !" 

He  spoke  with  a  smiling  courtesy  as  excessive  as  his  silky 
mustache,  bis  long  straw-colored  bieard,  and  his  Panama  hat 


896 


EOBEET  ELSMERB. 


Mme.  de  Netteville  surveyed  him  with  cool,  critical  eyes. 
Robert  smiled  sHghtly,  acknowledged  the  bow,  but  did  not 
speak. 

Mr.  Wishart  evidently  took  no  heed  of  anything  but  his  own 
thoughts.    He  sat  bolt  upright  with  shining,  excited  eyes. 

Ah,  I  remember  that  article  of*  yours  ill  the  *  Fortnightly  1' 
How  you  skeptics  miss  the  point !" 

And  out  came  a  stream  of  argument  and  denunciation  which 
had  probably  lain  lava-hot  at  the  heart  of  the  young  convert 
for  years,  waiting  for  such  a  moment  as  this,  when  he  had  be- 
fore him  at  close  quarters  two  of  the  most  famous  antagonists 
of  his  faith.  The  outburst  was  striking,  but  certainly  unpar- 
donably  ill-timed.  Mme.  de  Netteville  retreated  into  herself 
with  a  shrug.  Robert,  in  whom  a  sore  nerve  had  been  set  jar- 
ring, did  his  utmost  to  begin  his  talk  with  her  again. 

In  vain !— f  or  the  squire  struck  in.  He  had  been  sitting  hud- 
dled together — his  cynical  eyes  wandering  from  Wishart  to 
Elsmere— when  suddenly  some  extravagant  remark  of  the 
young  Cathohc,  and  Robert's  effort  to  edge  away  fi'om  the  con- 
versation, caught  his  attention  at  the  same  moment.  His  face 
hardened,  and  in  his  nasal  voice  he  dealt  a  swift  epigram  at 
Mr.  Wishart,  which  for  the  moment  left  the  yoimg  disputant 
floundering. 

But  only  for  the  moment.  In  another  minute  or  two  the 
argument,  begun  so  casually,  had  developed  into  a  serious  trial 
of  strength,  in  which  the  squire  and  young  Wishart  took  the 
chief  parts,  while  Mr.  Spooner  threw  in  a  laugh  and  a  sarcasm 
here  and  there. 

And  as  long  as  Mr.  Wendover  talked,  Mme.  de  NetteviUe 
listened.  Robert's  restless  repulsion  to  the  whole  incident,  his 
passionate  wish  to  escape  from  these  phrases  and  illustrations 
and  turns  of  argument  which  were  all  so  wearisomely  stale  and 
famihar  to  him,  found  no  support  in  her.  Mrs.  Darcy  dared 
not  second  his  attempts  at  chat,  for  Mr.  Wendover.  on  the  rare 
occasions  when  he  held  forth,  was  accustomed  to  be  listened  to; 
and  Elsmere  was  of  too  sensitive  a  social  fiber  to  break  up 
the  party  by  an  abrupt  exit,  which  could  only  have  been  inter- 
preted in  one  way. 

So  he  stayed,  and  perforce  listened,  but  in  complete  silence. 
ITone  of  Mr.  Wendover's  side-hits  touched  him.  Only  as  the 
talk  went  on,  the  rector  in  the  background  got  paler  and  paler; 
his  eyes,  as  they  passed  from  the  mobile  face  of  the  Catholi? 


J&OBERT  ELSMEEB. 


395 


convert,  already,  for  those  who  knew,  marked  with  the  signs 
of  deatn,  to  the  bronzed  visage  of  the  squire,  grew  duller- 
more  instinct  with  a  slowly  dawning  despair. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  was  once  more  on  the  road  leading  to 
the  park  gate.  He  had  a  vague  memory  that  at  parting  the 
squire  had  shown  him  the  cordiality  of  one  suddenly  anxious 
to  apologize  by  manner,  if  not  by  word.  Otherwise  everything 
was  forgotten.  He  was  only  anxious,  half  dazed  as  he  was, 
to  make  out  wherein  lay  the  vital  difference  between  his  pres- 
ent self  and  the  Elsmere  who  had  passed  along  that  road  an 
hour  before. 

He  had  heard  a  conversation  on  religious  topics,  wherein 
nothing  was  new  to  him,  nothing  affected  him  intellectually  at 
all.  What  was  there  in  that  to  break  the  spring  of  Ufe  like 
this?  He  stood  still,  heavily  trying  to  understand  himself. 

Then  gradually  it  became  clear  to  him.  A  month  ago,  every 
word  of  that  hectic  young  pleader  for  Christ  and  the  Christian 
certainties  would  have  roused  in  him  a  leaping  passionate  sym- 
pathy— the  heart's  yearning  assent,  even  when  the  intellect 
was  most  perplexed.  Now  that  inmost  strand  had  given  away. 
Suddenly  the  disintegrating  force  he  had  been  so  pitifully,  so 
blindly,  holding  at  bay  had  penetrated  once  for  all  into  the 
sanctuary !  What  had  happened  to  him  had  been  the  first  real 
failure  of  feeling^  the  first  treachery  of  the  heart.  Wishart's 
hopes  and  hatreds,  and  sublime  defiances  of  man's  petty  facul- 
ties, had  aroused  in  him  no  echo,  no  response.  His  soul  had 
been  dead  within  him. 

As  he  gained  the  shelter  of  the  wooded  lane  beyond  the  gate 
it  seemed  to  Eobert  that  he  was  going  thi;ough,  once  more, 
that  old  fierce  temptation  of  Bunyan's : 

For  after  the  Lord  had  in  this  manner  thus  graciously  de- 
livered me,  and  had  set  me  down  so  sweetly  in  the  faith  of  His 
Holy  Gospel,  and  had  given  me  such  strong  consolation  and 
blessed  evidence  from  heaven,  touching  my  interest  in  His  love 
through  Christ,  the  tempter  came  upon  me  again,  and  that 
with  a  more  grievous  and  dreadful  temptation  than  before. 
And  that  was:  '  To  sell  and  part  with  this  most  blessed  Christ; 
to  exchange  Him  for  the  things  of  life,  for  anything!'  The 
temptation  lay  upon  me  for  the  space  of  a  year,  and  did  follow 
me  so  continually  that  I  was  not  rid  of  it  one  day  in  a  month: 
no.  not  sometimes  one  hour  in  many  days  together,  for  it  did 


398 


BOBEBT  ELSMBBE. 


always,  in  almost  whatever  I  thought,  intermix  itself  there- 
with, in  such  sort  that  I  could  neither  eat  my  food,  stoop  for  a 
pin,  chop  a  stick,  or  cast  mine  eyes  to  look  on  this  or  that,  but 
still  the  temptation  would  come:  *Sell  Christ  for  this,  or  sell 
Christ  for  that;  sell  Him,  seU  Him!' " 

Was  this  what  lay  before  the  minister  of  God  now  in  this 
selva  oscura  of  Mfe?  The  selling  of  the  Master,  of  ''the  love 
so  sweet,  the  unction  spiritual,"  for  an  intellectual  satisfaction, 
the  ravaging  of  all  the  fair  places  of  the  heart  by  an  intellec- 
tual need ! 

And  still  through  all  the  despair,  all  the  revolt,  all  the  pain, 
which  made  the  summer  air  a  darkness,  and  closed  every  sense 
in  him  to  the  evening  beauty,  he  felt  the  irresistible  march  and 
pressure  of  the  new  instincts,  the  new  forces,  which  life  and 
thought  had  been  calling  into  being.  The  words  of  St.  Augus- 
tine which  he  had  read  to  CatherinCj  taken  in  a  strange  new 
sense,  came  back  to  him;  ''Commend  to  the  keeping  of  the 
Truth  whatever  the  Truth  hath  given  thee,  and  thou  shalt  lose 
nothing!" 

Was  it  the  summons  of  Truth  which  was  rending  the  whole 
nature  in  this  way? 

Robert  stood  stiU,  and  with  his  hands  locked  behind  him, 
and  his  face  turned  like  the  face  of  a  blind  man  toward  a  world 
of  which  it  saw  nothing,  went  through  a  desperate  catechism 
of  himself. 

"Do  J  believe  in  Godf  Surely,  surely!  'Though  He  slay 
me  yet  will  I  trust  in  Him !'  Do  I  believe  in  Christ  f  Yes— iq 
the  teacher,  the  martyr,  the  symbol  to  us  Westerns  of  all 
things  heavenly  and  abiding,  the  image  and  pledge  of  the  in 
visible  life  of  the  spirit— with  all  my  soul  and  all  my  mind ! 

"  But  in  the  Man- God,  the  Word  from  Eternity— in  a  wob 
der-working  Christ,  in  a  risen  and  ascended  Jesus,  in  the  h> 
ing  Intercessor  and  Mediator  for  the  lives  of  His  doorri»*^l 
brethren?" 

He  waited,  conscious  that  it  was  the  crisis  of  his  history,  and 
there  rose  in  him,  as  though  articulated  one  by  onv  hf  an 
audible  voice,  words  of  irrevocable  meaning. 

"  Every  human  soul  in  which  the  voice  of  God  makes  itself 
felt,  enjoys,  equally  with  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  the  <livine  wor- 
ship, and  '  miracles  do  not  happen  P  " 

It  was  done.  He  felt  for  the  moment  as  Bitiiyan  did  after 
his  lesser  defeat. 


ROBERT  ELSMBRB. 


399 


**  Now  was  the  battle  won,  and  down  fell  I  as  a  bird  that  is 
shot  from  the  top  of  a  tree  into  great  guilt  and  fearful  despair. 
Thus  getting  out  of  my  bed  I  went  moping  in  the  field;  but 
God  knows  with  as  heavy  a  heart  as  mortal  man  I  think  could 
bear,  where  for  the  space  of  two  hours  I  was  like  a  man  bereft 
ofhfe." 

All  these  years  of  happy,  spiritual  certainty,  of  rejoicing 
oneness  with  Christ,  to  end  in  this  wreck  and  loss !  Was  not 
this  indeed  ^'il  gran  rifiuto ''^—the  greatest  of  which  human 
daring  is  capable?  The  lane  darkened  round  him.  Not  a  soul 
was  in  sight.  The  only  sounds  were  the  sounds  of  a  gently- 
breathing  nature,  sounds  of  birds  and  swaying  branches  and 
intermittent  gusts  of  air  rustling  through  the  gorse  and  the 
drifts  of  last  year's  leaves  in  the  wood  beside  him.  He  moved 
mechanically  onward,  and  presently,  after  the  first  flutter  of 
desolate  terror  had  passed  away,  with  a  new  inrushing  sense 
which  seemed  to  him  a  sense  of  liberty— of  infinite  expansion. 

Suddenly  the  trees  before  him  thinned,  the  ground  sloped 
away,  and  there  to  the  left  on  the  westernmost  edge  of  the  hill 
lay  the  square  stone  rectory,  its  windows  open  to  the  evening 
coolness,  a  white  flutter  of  pigeons  round  the  dove-cote  on  the 
side  lawn,  the  gold  of  the  August  wheat  in  the  great  corn-field 
showing  against  the  heavy  girdle  of  oak-wood. 

Eobert  stood  gazing  at  it— the  home  consecrated  by  love,  by 
effort,  by  faith.  The  high  alternations  of  intellectual  and 
spiritual  debate,  the  strange  emerging  sense  of  deliverance, 
gave  way  to  a  most  bitter  human  pang  of  misery. 

^'Oh,God!    My  wife—my  work P' 

—There  was  a  sound  of  a  voice  calling— Catherine's  voice 
calling  for  him.  He  leaned  against  the  gate  of  the  wood-path, 
struggling  sternly  with  himself.  This  was  no  simple  matter  of 
his  own  intellectual  consistency  or  happiness.  Another's  whole 
life  was  concerned.  Any  precipitate  speech,  or  hasty  action, 
would  be  a  crime.  A  man  is  bound  above  all  things  to  protect 
those  who  depend  on  him  from  his  own  immature  or  revocable 
impulses.  Not  a  word  yet,  till  this  sense  of  convulsion  and 
upheaval  had  passed  away,  and  the  mind  was  once  more  its 
own  master. 

He  opened  the  gate  and  went  toward  her.  She  was  strolHng 
along  the  path  looking  out  for  him,  one  delicate  hand  gather- 
ing up  her  long  evening  dress— that  verj^  same  black  brocade 
she  had  worn  in  the  old  days  at  Burwoo  *-the  other  playing 


400 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


with  their  Dandie  Dinmont  puppy  who  was  leaping  beside  her.^ 
As  she  caught  sight  of  him,  there  was  the  flashing  smile,  the 
hurrying  step.  And  he  felt  he  could  but  just  drag  himself  to 
meet  her. 

Robert,  how  long  you  have  been!    I  thought  you  must 
have  stayed  to  dinner  after  all !   And  how  tired  you  seem !" 

''I  had  a  long  walk,"  he  said,  catching  her  hand,  as  it 
slipped  itself  under  his  arm,  and  clinging  to  it  as  though  to  a 
support.  ''And  I  am  tired.  There  is  no  use  whatever  in 
denying  it." 

His  voice  was  light,  but  if  it  had  not  been  so  dark  she  must 
have  been  startled  by  his  face.  As  they  went  on  toward  the 
house,  however,  she  scolding  him  for  overwalking,  he  won  his 
battle  with  himself.  He  went  through  the  evening  so  that 
even  Catherine's  jealous  eyes  saw  nothing  but  extra  fatigue. 
In  the  most  desperate  straits  of  life  love  is  stiQ  the  fountain  of 
all  endurance,  and  if  ever  a  man  loved  it  was  Robert  Elsmere. 

But  that  night,  as  he  lay  sleepless  in  their  quiet  room,  with 
the  window  open  to  the  stars  and  the  rising  gusts  of  wind, 
which  blew  the  petals  of  the  cluster-rose  outside  in  di'ifts  of 
''fair  weather  snow"  on  to  the  window-sill,  he  went  through 
an  agony  which  no  words  can  adequately  describe. 

He  must,  of  course,  give  up  his  hving  and  his  Orders.  His  ^ 
standards  and  judgments  had  always  been  simple  and  plain  in 
these  respects.  In  other  men  it  might  be  right  and  possible 
that  they  should  hve  on  in  the  ministry  of  the  Church,  doing 
the  humane  and  charitable  work  of  the  Church,  while  refusing 
assent  to  the  intellectual  and  dogmatic  frame-work  on  which 
the  Chm-ch  system  rests;  but  for  himself  it  would  be  neither 
right  nor  wrong,  but  simply  impossible.  He  did  not  ar^^ue  or 
reason  about  it.  There  was  a  favorite  axiom  of  Mr.  Grey's 
which  had  become  part  of  his  pupil's  spiritual  endowment,  and 
which  was  perpetually  present  to  him  at  this  crisis  of  his  life,  in 
the  spirit,  if  not  in  the  letter—"  Conviction  is  the  Conscience  of 
the  Mind,''^  And  with  this  intellectual  conscience  he  was  no 
more  capable  of  trifling  than  with  the  moral  conscience. 

The  night  passed  away.  How  the  rare  intermittent  sounds 
impressed  themselves  upon  him !— the  stir  of  the  child's  waking 
soon  after  midnight  in  the  room  overhead ;  the  cry  of  the  owls 
on  the  oak-wood ;  the  purrihg  of  tne  night-jars  on  the  com- 
mon; the  morning  chatter  of  the  swallows  round  the  eaves. 

With  the  first  invasion  of  the  dawn  Robert  raised  himself 


EOBEET  ELSMEEE. 


40S 


i  and  looked  at  Catherine.   She  was  sleeping  with  that  light 
I  sound  sleep  which  belongs  to  health  of  body  and  mind,  one 
I  hand  under  her  face,  the  other  stretched  out  in  soft  relaxation 
1  beside  her.   Her  husband  hung  over  her  in  a  bewilderment  of 
feeling.   Before  him  passed  all  sorts  of  incoherent  pictures  of 
the  future;  the  mind  was  caught  by  all  manner  of  incongruous 
details  in  that  saddest  uprooting  which  lay  before  him.  How 
her  sleep,  her  ignorance,  reproached  him!   He  thought  of  the 
wreck  of  all  her  pure  ambitions— for  him,  for  their  common 
work,  for  the  people  she  had  come  to  love ;  the  ruin  of  her  life 
of  charity  and  tender  usefulness,  the  darkening  of  all  her  hopes, 
the  shaking  of  all  her  trust.   Two  years  of  devotion,  of  ex- 
quisite self -surrender,  had  brought  her  to  this!   It  was  for 
this  he  had  lured  her  from  the  shelter  of  her  hills,  for  this  she 
had  opened  to  him  all  her  sweet  stores  of  faith,  all  the  deepest 
I  springs  of  her  womanhood.    Oh,  how  she  must  suffer!  The 
1  thought  of  it  and  his  own  helplessness  wrung  his  heart, 
j    Oh,  could  he  keep  her  love  through  it  all  ?  There  was  an 
!  unspeakable  dread  mingled  with  his  grief — his  remorse.  It 
I  had  been  there  for  months.   In  her  eyes  would  not  only  pain 
I  but  sin  divide  them  ?  Could  he  possibly  prevent  her  whole 
relation  to  him  from  altering  and  dwindling? 

It  was  to  be  the  problem  of  his  remaining  life.  With  a  great 
i  cry  of  the  soul  to  that  God  it  yearned  and  felt  for  through  all 
the  darkness  and  ruin  which  encompassed  it,  he  laid  his  hand 
on  hers  with  the  timidest  passing  touch. 

Catherine,  I  will  make  amends!  My  wife,  I  will  make 
amends !" 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 

The  next  morning  Catherine,  finding  that  Eobert  still  slep^ 
on  after  their  usual  waking  time,  and  remembering  his  exhaus- 
tion of  the  night  before,  left  him  softly,  and  kept  the  house 
quiet  that  he  might  not  be  disturbed.  She  was  in  charge  ot 
the  now  toddling  Mary  in  the  dining-room  when  the  door 
opened  and  Eobert  appeared. 

At  sight  of  him  she  sprung  up  with  a  half  cry;  tiie  face 
seemed  to  have  lost  all  its  fresh  color,  its  look  of  sun  aiA  air; 
the  eyes  were  sunk ;  the  lips  and  chin  lined  and  drawn.  It  was 

I  like  a  face  from  which  the  youth  had  suddenly  been  struck 

i  out. 

**  Eobert !— but  her  question  died  on  her  lip^. 


402  EOBEET  ELSMERE. 

A  bad  night,  darling,  and  a  bad  headache,"  he  said,  grop- 
ing his  way,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  to  the  table,  his  hand  leaning 
on  her  arm.      Give  me  some  breakfast." 

She  restrained  hei'self  at  once,  put  him  into  an  arm-chair  by 
the  window,  and  cared  for  him  in  her  tender,  noiseless  way. 
But  she  had  grown  almost  as  pale  as  he,  and  her  heart  was 
like  lead. 

*'Will  you  send  me  off  for  the  day  to  Thurston  ponds?"  he 
said  presently,  trying  to  smile  with  lips  so  stiff  and  nerveless 
that  the  will  had  small  control  over  them. 

Can  you  walk  so  far?  You  did  overdo  it  yesterday,  you 
know.    You  have  never  got  over  Mile  End,  Robert." 

But  her  voice  had  a  note  in  it  which  in  his  weakness  he  could 
hardly  bear.  He  thirsted  to  be  alone  again,  •  be  able  to 
think  over  quietly  what  was  best  for  her— fo-  them  both. 
There  must  be  a  next  step,  and  in  her  neighborhood  he  was 
too  feeble,  too  tortured,  to  decide  upon  it. 

*'No  more,  dear— no  more,"  he  said,  impatiently,  as  she 
tried  to  feed  him;  then  he  added,  as  he  rose:  Don't  make 
arrangements  for  our  going  next  week,  Catherine ;  it  can't  be 
so  soon." 

Catherine  looked  at  him  with  eyes  of  utter  dismay.  The 
sustaining  hope  of  all  these  difScult  weeks,  which  had  slipped 
with  such  terrible  unexpectedness  into  their  happy  life,  was 
swept  away  from  her. 

Robert,  you  ought  to  go." 

I  have  too  Jmany  things  to  arrange,"  he  said,  sharply,  al- 
most irritably.  Then  his  tone  changed:  Don't  urge  it,  Cath- 
erine." 

His  eyes  in  their  weariness  seemed  to  entreat  her  not  to 
argue.   She  stooped  and  kissed  him,  her  lips  trembling. 

"When  do  you  want  to  go  to  Thurston?" 
As  soon  as  possible.    Can  you  find  me  my  fishing-basket 
and  get  me  some  sandwiches?  I  shall  only  lounge  there  and 
take  it  easy." 

She  did  everything  for  him  that  wifely  hands  conld  do. 
Then  when  his  fishing-basket  was  strapped  on,  and  his  lunch 
was  slipped  into  the  capacious  packet  of  the  well-worn  shooting 
coat,  she  threw  her  arms  round  him. 

"Robert,  you  will  come  away  soo/i." 

He  roused  himself  and  kissed  her. 

will,"  he  said  simplyi* withdrawing,  however,  from  her 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


403 


grasp,  as  though  he  could  not  bear  those  close,  pleading  eyes. 

Good  bye !   I  shall  be  back  some  time  in  the  afternoon." 

From  her  post  beside  the  study  window  she  watched  him 
take  the  short  cut  across  the  corn-field.  She  was  miserable, 
and  all  at  sea.  A  week  ago  he  had  been  so  hke  himself  again, 
and  now—  Never  had  she  seen  him  in  anything  like  this  state 
of  physical  and  mental  collapse. 

Oh,  Robert,"  she  cried  under  her  breath,  with  an  abandon- 
ment like  a  chM's,  strong  soul  that  she  was,  "  why  won't  you 
tell  me,  dear?  Why  won't  you  let  me  share?  I  might  help 
y  on  through— I  might. " 

She  supposed  he  must  be  again  in  trouble  of  mind.  A 
weaker  woman  would  have  implored,  tormented,  till  she  knew 
all.  Catherine's  very  strength  and  delicacy  of  nature,  and 
that  respect  which  was  inbred  in  her  for  the  sacra  of  the  inner 
life,  stood  in  her  way.  She  could  not  catechise  him,  and  force 
his  confidence  on  this  subject  of  all  others.  It  must  be  given 
freely.   And  oh !  it  was  so  long  in  coming ! 

Surely,  surely  it  must  be  mainly  physical,  the  result  of  over- 
strain—expressing itself  in  characteristic  mental  worry,  just  as 
daily  life  reproduces  itself  in  dreams.  The  wordly  man  suffers 
at  such  times  through  worldly  things,  the  religious  man 
through  his  religion.  Comforting  herself  a  little  with  thoughts 
of  this  kind,  and  with  certain  more  or  less  vague  preparations 
for  departure,  Catherine  got  through  the  morning  as  best  she 
might." 

Meanwhile,  Eobert  was  trudging  along  tc  Thurston  under  a 
sky  which,  after  a  few  threatening  showers,  promised  once  more 
to  be  a  sky  of  intense  heat.  He  had  with  him  all  the  tackle 
necessary  for  spooning  pike,  a  sport  the  novelty  and  success  of 
which  had  hugely  commended  it  the  year  before  to  those  Esau- 
like instincts  Murewell  had  so  much  developed  in  him. 

And  now— oh,  the  weariness  of  the  August  warmth,  and  the 
long  stretches  of  sandy  road !  By  the  time  he  reached  the  ponds 
he  was  tired  out ;  but  instead  of  stopping  ^t  the  largest  of  the 
three,  where  a  picturesque  group  of  old  brick  cottages  brought 
a  reminder  of  man  and  his  works  into  the  prairie  solitude  of 
the  common,  he  pushed  on  to  a  smaller  pool  just  beyond,  now 
hidden  in  a  green  cloud  of  birch-wood.  Here,  after  pushing 
his  way  through  the  closely  set  trees,  he  made  some  futile  at 
tempts  at  fishing,  only  to  put  up  his  rod  long  before  the  mom 
ing  was  over  and  la  y  it  beside  him  on  the  bank.  And  there 


404 


KOBERT  ELSMEBE. 


sat  for  hours,  vaguely  watching  the  reflection  of  the  clouds, 
the  gambols  and  quarrels  of  the  water-fowl,  the  ways  of  the 
birds,  the  alternations  of  sun  and  shadow  on  the  softly  moving 
trees— the  real  self  of  him  passing  all  the  while  through  an 
interminable  inward  drama,  starting  from  the  past,  stretching 
to  the  future,  steeped  in  passion,  in  pity,  in  i-egret. 

He  thought  of  the  feelings  with  which  he  had  taken  Orders, 
of  Oxford  scenes  and  Oxford  persons,  of  the  efforts,  the  pains, 
the  successes  of  his  first  year  at  Mure  well.  What  a  ghastly  mis- 
take it  had  all  been !  He  felt  a  kind  of  sore  contempt  for  him- 
self, for  his  own  lack  of  prescience,  of  self-knowledge.  His  life 
looked  to  him  so  shallow  and  worthless.  How  does  a  man  ever 
retrieve  such  a  false  step?  He  groaned  aloud  as  he  thought  of 
Catherine  linked  to  one  born  to  defeat  her  hopes,  and  all  that 
natural  pride  that  a  woman  feels  in  the  strength  and  consist- 
ency of  the  man  she  loves.  As  he  sat  there  by  the  water  he 
touched  the  depth  of  self-humihation: 

As  to  religious  behef,  everything  was  a  chaos.  What  might 
be  to  him  the  ultimate  forms  and  condition  of  thought,  the 
tired  mind  was  quite  incapable  of  divining.  To  every  stage  in 
the  process  of  destruction  it  was  feverishly  alive.  But  its 
formative  energy  was  for  the  moment  gone.  The  foimdations 
were  swept  away,  and  everything  must  be  built  up  afresh. 
Only  the  habit  of  faith  held,  the  close  instinctive  clinging  to 
a  Power  beyond  sense— a  Goodness,  a  Will,  not  man's.  The 
soul  had  been  stripped  of  its  old  defenses,  but  at  his  worst 
there  was  never  a  moment  when  Elsmere  felt  himself  utterly 
forsaken. 

But  his  people— his  work!  Every  now  and  then  into  the 
fragmentary  debate  still  going  on  within  him  there  would  flash 
little  pictures  of  MurewelL  The  green,  with  the  sun  on  the 
house-fronts,  the  awning  over  the  village  shop,  the  vane  on  the 
old  Manor  House,"  the  familiar  figures  at  the  doors;  his 
church,  with  every  figure  in  the  Sunday  congregation  as  clear 
to  him  as  though  he  were  that  moment  in  the  pulpit;  the 
children  he  had  taught,  the  sick  he  had  nursed,  this  or  that 
weather-beaten  or  brutalized  peasant  whose  history  he  knew, 
«vhose  tragic  secrets  he  had  learned— all  these  memories  and 
images  clung  about  him  as  though  with  ghostly  hands,  asking: 
''Why  will  you  desert  us?   You  are  ours— stay  with  us !" 

Then  his  thoughts  would  run  over  the  future,  dwelling,  with 
a  tense  reaUstic  sharpness,  on  every  detail  which  lay  before 


BOBEBT  ELSMEBE. 


405 


him— the  arrangements  with  his  locum  tenens,  the  mterview 
with  the  bishop,  the  parting  with  the  rectory.  It  even  occurred 
to  him  to  wonder  what  must  be  done  with  Martha  and  his 
mother's  cottage. 

His  mother?  As  he  thought  of  her  a  wave  of  unutterable 
longing  rose  and  broke.  The  difficult  tears  stood  in  his  eyes. 
He  had  a  strange  conviction  that  at  this  crisis  of  his  life  she 
of  all  human  beings  would  have  understood  him  best. 

When  would  the  squire  know?  He  pictured  the  interview 
with  him,  divining,  with  the  same  abnormal  clearness  of  inward 
vision,  Mr.  Wendover's  start  of  mingled  triumph  and  impa- 
tience—triumph in  the  new  recruit,  impatience  with  the 
quixotic  folly  which  could  lead  a  man  to  look  upon  orthodox 
dogma  as  a  thing  real  enough  to  be  publicly  renounced,  or 
clerical  pledges  as  more  than  a  form  of  words.  So  henceforth 
he  was  on  the  same  side  with  the  squire,  held  by  an  indiscrimi- 
nating  world  as  bound  to  the  same  negations,  the  same  hostih- 
ties.  The  thought  roused  in  him  a  sudden  fierceness  of  moral 
repugnance.  The  squire  and  Edward  Langham— they  were 
the  only  skeptics  of  whom  he  had  ever  had  close  and  personal 
experience.  And  with  all  his  old  affection  for  Langham,  all 
his  frank  sense  of  pliancy  in  the  squire's  hands,  yet  in  this 
strait  of  Hfe  how  he  shrinks  from  them  both!— souls  at  war 
with  life  and  man,  without  holmess,  without  perfume ! 

Is  it  the  law  of  things?  Once  loosen  a  man's  religio,  once 
fling  away  the  old  binding  elements,  the  old  traditional  re 
straints  which  have  made  him  what  he  is,  and  moral  deterio- 
ration is  certain."  How  often  he  has  heard  it  said!  How 
often  he  has  indorsed  it!  Is  it  true?  His  heart  grows  cold 
within  him.  What  good  man  can  ever  contemplate  with  pa- 
tience the  loss,  not  of  friends  or  happiness,  but  of  his  best  self? 
What  shall  it  profit  a  man,  indeed,  if  he  gain  the  whole  world 
—the  whole  world  of  knowledge  and  speculation— and  lose  his 
own  soulf 

And  then,  for  his  endless  comfort,  there  rose  on  the  inward 
eye  the  vision  of  an  Oxford  lecture-room,  of  a  short  sturdy  fig- 
ure, of  a  great  brow  over  honest  eyes,  of  words  ahve  with 
moral  passion,  of  thought  instinct  with  the  beauty  of  holiness. 
Thank  God  for  the  saint  in  Henry  Grey !  Thinking  of  it,  Eob- 
ert  felt  his  own  self-respect  reborn. 

Oh!  to  see  Grey  in  the  flesh,  to  get  his  advice,  his  approval! 
Byen  though  it  was  the  depth  of  vacation,  Grey  was  so  closely 


406 


BOBEBT  ELSMEBE. 


connected  with  the  town,  as  distinguished  from  the  university, 
life  of  Oxford,  it  might  be  quite  possible  to  find  him  at  home. 
Elsmere  suddenly  determined  to  find  out  at  once  if  he  could 
be  seen. 

And  if  so,  he  would  go  over  to  Oxford  at  once.  This  should 
be  the  next  step,  and  he  would  say  nothing  to  Catherine  till 
afterwards.  He  felt  himself  so  dull,  so  weary,  so  resourceless. 
Grey  should  help  and  counsel  hi^i,  should  send  him  back  with 
a  clearer  brain — a  quicker  ingenuity  of  love,  better  furnished 
against  her  pain  and  his  own. 

Then  everything  else  was  forgotten;  and  he  thought  of  noth- 
ing but  that  grisly  moment  of  waking  in  the  empty  room, 
when  still  believing  it  night,  he  had  put  out  his  hand  for  his 
wife,  and  with  a  superstitious  pang  had  felt  himself  alone. 
His  heart  torn  with  a  hundred  inarticulate  cries  of  memory 
and  grief,  he  sat  on  beside  the  water,  unconscious  of  the  pas- 
ing  of  time,  his  gray  eyes  staring  sightlessly  at  the  wood-pig- 
eons as  they  flew  past  him,  at  the  occasional  flash  of  a  king- 
fisher, at  the  moving  panorama  of  summer  clouds  above  the 
trees  opposite. 

At  last  he  was  startled  back  to  consciousness  by  the  fall  ot 
a  few  heavy  drops  of  warm  rain.  He  looked  at  his  watch. 
It  was  nearly  four  o^clock.  He  rose,  stiff  and  cramped  with 
sitting,  and  at  the  same  instant  he  saw  beyond  the  birch-wood 
on  the  open  stretch  of  common  a  boy's  figure,  which,  after 
a  step  or  two,  he  recognized  as  Ned  Irwin. 

You  here,  Ned?''  he  said,  stopping,  the  pastoral  temper  in 
him  reasserting  itself  at  once.  ''Why  aren't  you  harvest- 
ing?" 

''Please,  sir,  I  finished  with  the  Hall  medders  yesterday, 
and  Mr.  Carter's  job  don't  begin  till  to  morrow.  He's  got  a 
machine  coming  from  Witley,  he  hev,  and  they  won't  let  him 
have  it  till  Thursday,  so  I've  been  out  after  things  for  the 
club." 

And  opening  the  tin  box  strapped  on  his  back,  he  showed  the 
day's  capture  of  butterflies,  and  some  belated  birds'  eggs,  the 
plunder  of  a  bit  of  common  where  the  turf  for  the  winter's 
burning  was  just  being  cut. 

"Goat-sucker,  linnet,  stone-chat,"  said  the  rector,  fingering 
them.  ' '  Well  done  for  August,  Ned.  If  you  haven't  got  any- 
thing better  to  do  with  them  give  them  to  that  small  boy  of 


BOBEET  ELSMERE. 


Mr.  Carter's  that's  been  ill  so  long.   He'd  thank  you  for  them, 
I  know."  _ 

The  lad  nodded  with  a  guttural  sound  of  assent.  Then  his 
new-bom  scientific  ardor  seemed  to  struggle  with  his  rustic 
costiveness  of  speech. 

I've  been  just  watching  a  queer  creetur,"  he  said  at  last, 
hurriedly ;  ' '  I  b'leeve  he's  that  un. " 

And  he  pulled  out  a  well-thumbed  hand-book,  and  pointed  to 
a  cut  of  the  grasshopper  warbler. 

•^Whereabouts?"  asked  Eobert,  wondering  the  while  at  his 
own  start  of  interest. 

In  that  bit  of  common  t'other  side  the  big  pond,"  said  Ned, 
pointing,  his  brick-red  countenance  kindUng  into  suppressed 
excitement. 

Come  and  show  me!"  said  the  rector,  and  the  two  went  off 
together.  And  sure  enough,  after  a  little  beating  about,  they 
heard  tht^  note  which  had  roused  the  lad's  curiosity,  the  loud 
whirr  of  a  creature  that  should  have  been  a  grasshopper,  and 
was  not. 

They  stalked  the  bird  a  few  yards,  stooping  and  crouching, 
Eobert's  eager  hand  on  the  boy's  arm,  whenever  the  clumsy 
rustic  movements  made  too  much  noise  among  the  under- 
wood. They  watched  it  uttering  its  jarring  imitative  note  on 
bush  after  bush,  just  dropping  to  the  ground  as  they  came 
near,  and  flitting  a  yard  or  two  further,  but  otherwise  showing 
no  sign  of  alarm  at  their  presence.  Then  suddenly  the  im- 
pulse which  had  been  leading  him  on  died  in  the  rector.  He 
stood  upright,  with  a  long  sigh. 

''I  must  go  home,  Ned,"  he  said,  abruptly.  Where  are 
you  off  to?" 

*'  Please,  sir,  there's  my  sister  at  the  cottage,  her  as  married 
Jim,  the  under-keeper.   I  be  going  there  for  my  tea." 
Come  along,  then ;  we  can  go  together." 

They  trudged  along  in  silence;  presently  Eobert  turned  on 
his  companion. 

Ned,  this  natural  history  has  been  a  fine  thing  for  you,  my 
lad  ;  mind  you  stick  to  it.  That  and  good  work  will  make  a 
man  of  you.   When  I  go  away—" 

The  boy  started  and  stopped  dead,  his  dumb  animal  eyes 
fixed  on  his  companion. 

"You  know  I  shall  soon  be  going  off  on  my  holiday,"  said 
^Robert,  smiling  faintly;  adding,  hurriedly,  as  the  boy's  face 


408 


BOBEKT  ELSMEBB, 


resumed  its  ordinary  expression:  But  some  day,  Ned,  I  shall 
go  for  good.  I  don't  know  whether  youVe  been  depending  on 
me— you  and  some  of  the  others.  I  think  perhaps  you  have. 
If  so,  don't  depend  on  me,  Ned,  any  more !  It  must  all  come 
to  an  end— every  thing  must— everything  /—except  the  struggle 
to  be  a  man  in  the  world,  and  not  a  beast— to  make  one's 
heart  clean  and  soft,  and  not  hard  and  vile.  That  is  the  one 
thing  that  matters,  and  lasts.  Ah,  never  forget  that,  Ned. 
Never  forget  it !" 

He  stood  still,  towering  over  the  slouching  thickset  form  be^ 
side  him,  his  pale  intensity  of  look  giving  a  rare  dignity  and 
beauty  to  the  face  which  owed  so  little  of  its  attractiveness  to 
comeliness  of  feature.  He  had  the  makings  of  a  true  shepherd 
of  men,  and  his  mind  as  he  spoke  was  crossed  by  a  hundred 
different  currents  of  feeling— bitterness,  pain,  and  yearning 
unspeakable.  No  man  could  feel  the  wrench  that  lay  before 
him  more  than  he. 

Ned  Irwin  said  not  a  word.  His  heavy  lids  were  drooped 
over  his  deep-set  eye;  he  stood  motionless,  nervously  fiddling 
with  his  butterfly  net— awkwardness,  and,  as  it  seemed,  irre- 
sponsiveness,  in  his  whole  attitude. 

Kobert  gathered  himself  together. 

"  Well,  good  night,  my  lad,"  he  said,  with  a  change  of  tone, 
Good  luck  to  you ;  be  off  to  your  tea !" 

And  be  turned  away,  striding  swiftly  over  the  short,  burned 
August  grass  in  the  direction  of  the  Murewell  woods,  which 
rose  in  a  blue  haze  of  heat  aprainst  the  slumberous  afternoon 
sky.  He  had  not  gone  a  hundred  yards  before  he  heard  a  clat- 
tering  after  him.    He  stopped,  and  Ned  came  up  with  him. 

"They're  heavy,  them  things,"  said  the  boy,  desperately 
blurting  it  out,  and  pointing,  with  heaving  chest  and  panting 
breath,  to  the  rod  and  basket.  "I  am  going  that  way;  I  can 
leave  un  at  the  rectory." 

Robert's  eyes  gleamed. 

'^They  are  no  weight,  Ned— 'cause  why?  I've  been  lazy 
and  caught  no  fish !  But  there  "—after  a  moment's  hesitation 
he  slipped  off  the  basket  and  rod,  and  put  them  into  the  be- 
grimed hands  held  out  for  them.  Bring  them  when  you- 
like ;  I  don't  know  when  I  shall  want  them  again.  Thank  you, 
and  God  bless  you !" 

The  boy  was  off  with  his  booty  in  a  second. 

**  Perhaps  he'll  like  to  think  he  did  it  for  me,  by  and  by.** 


EOBEBT  ELSMERB. 


409 


said  Robert,  sadly  to  himself,  moving  on,  a  Uttle  moisture  in 
the  clear  gray  eye. 

About  three  o'clock  next  day  Robert  was  in  Oxford.  The 
night  before  he  had  telegraphed  to  ask  if  Grey  was  at  home. 
The  reply  had  been:  "  Here  for  a  week  on  way  north;  come 
by  all  means."  Oh!  that  look  of  Catherine's  when  he  had 
told  her  of  his  plan,  trying  in  vain  to  make  it  look  merely 
casual  and  ordinary. 

**lt  is  more  than  a  year  since  I  have  set  eyes  on  Grey,  Cath- 
erine. And  the  day's  change  would  be  a  boon.  I  could  stay 
the  night  at  Merton,  and  get  home  early  next  day." 

But  as  he  turned  a  pleading  look  to  her  he  had  been  startled 
by  the  sudden  rigidity  of  face  and  form.  Her  silence  had  in  it 
an  intense,  almost  a  haughty  reproach,  which  she  was  too 
keenly  hurt  to  put  into  words. 

He  caught  her  by  the  arm,  and  drew  her  forcibly  to  him. 
There  he  made  her  look  into  the  eyes  which  were  full  of  noth- 
ing but  the  most  passionate  imploring  affection. 

^'Have  patience  a  Httle  more,  Catherine!"  he  justly  mur- 
mured. Oh,  how  I  have  blessed  you  for  silence!  Only  till 
I  come  back!" 

**TiU  you  come  back,"  she  repeated,  slowly.  I  cannot 
bear  it  any  longer,  Robert,  that  you  should  give  others  your 
confidence,  and  not  me." 

He  groaned  and  let  her  go.  No— there  should  be  but  one 
day  more  of  silence,  and  that  day  was  interposed  for  her  sake. 
If  Grey  from  his  calmer  standpoint  bade  him  wait  and  test 
himself,  before  taking  any  irrevocable  step,  he  would  obey 
him.  And  if  so,  the  worst  pang  of  all  need  not  yet  be  inflicted 
on  Catherine,  though  as  to  his  state  of  mind  he  would  be  per- 
fectly open  with  her. 

A  few  hours  later  his  cab  deposited  him  at  the  well-known 
door.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  and  the  scorched  plane-trees 
hning  the  sides  of  the  road  were  the  only  living  things  in  the 
wide,  sun-beaten  street. 

Every  house  was  shut  up.  Only  the  Greys'  open  windows, 
amid  their  shuttered  neighbors,  had  a  friendly  human  air. 

Yes;  Mr.  Grey  was  in,  and  expecting  Mr.  Elsmere.  Robert 
climbed  the  dim,  familiar  staircase,  his  heart  beating  fast. 
Elsmere,  this  is  a  piece  of  good  fortune !" 

And  the  two  men,  after  a  grasp  of  the  hand,  stood  fronting 


410 


EGBERT  ELSMEBB. 


each  other:  Mr.  Grey,  a  light  of  pleasure  on  the  rugged,  dark- 
complexioned  face,  looking  up  at  his  taller  and  paler  visitor. 

But  Robert  could  find  nothing  to  say  in  return;  and  in  an 
instant  Mr.  Grey's  quick  eye  detected  the  straiiked  nervous 
emotion  of  the  man  before  him. 

Come  and  sit  down,  Elsmere— there,  in  the  window,  where 
we  can  talk.  One  has  to  Hve  on  this  east  side  of  the  house  this 
weather.  In  the  first  place,"  said  Mr.  Grey,  scrutinizing  him, 
as  he  returned  to  his  own  book-littered  comer  of  the  window- 
seat— ^' in  the  first  place,  my  dear  fellow,  I  can't  congratulate 
you  on  your  appearance.  I  never  saw  a  man  look  in  worse 
condition — to  be  up  and  about." 

"That's  nothing!"  said  Eobert,  almost  impatiently. 
want  a  holiday,  I  believe.    Grey!"  and  he  looked  nervously 
out  over  garden  and  apple-trees,    I  have  come— very  selfishly 
—to  ask  your  advice,  to  throw  a  trouble  upon  you,  to  claim 
all  your  friendship  can  give  me." 

He  stopped.  Mr.  Grey  was  silent — his  expression  changing 
instantly,  the  bright  eyes  profoundly,  anxiously  attentive. 

I  have  just  come  to  the  conclusion,"  said  Eobert,  after  a 
moment,  with  quick  abruptness,  "that  I  ought  now — at  this 
moment—to  leave  the  Church,  and  give  up  my  Hving,  for 
reasons  which  I  will  describe  to  you.  But  before  I  act  on  the 
conclusion  I  wanted  the  light  of  your  mind  upon  it,  seeing 
that— that — other  persons  than  myself  are  concerned." 

"  Give  up  your  living!"  echoed  Mr.  Grey,  in  a  low  voice  of 
astonishment.  He  sat  looking  at  the  face  and  figure  of  the 
man  before  him  with  a  half -frowning  expression.  How  often 
Robert  had  seen  some  rash  exuberant  youth  quelled  by  that 
momentary  frown  I  Essentially  conservative  as  was  the  inmost 
nature  of  the  man,  for  all  his  radicalism  there  were  few  things 
for  which  Henry  Grey  felt  more  instinctive  distaste  than  for 
unsteadiness  of  will  and  purpose,  however  glorified  by  fine 
names.  Robert  knew  it,  and,  strangely  enough,  felt  for  a 
moment  in  the  presence  of  the  heretical  tutor  as  a  culprit  be- 
fore a  judge. 

"It  is,  of  course,  a  matter  of  opinions,"  he  said,  with  an 
effort.  "Do  you  remember,  before  I  took  Orders,  asking 
whether  I  had  ever  had  difficulties,  and  I  told  you  that  I  had 
probably  never  gone  deep  enough.  It  wa^  profoundly  true, 
though  I  didn't  really  mean  it.  But  this  year—  No,  no,  I  have 


ROBERT  BLSMBRB. 


4H 


not  been  merely  vain  and  hasty !  I  may  be  a  shallow  creature, 
but  it  has  been  natural  growth,  not  wantonness." 

And  at  last  his  eyes  met  Mr.  Grey's  firmly,  almost  with 
solemnity,  "^t  was  as  if  in  the  last  few  moments  he  had  been 
instinctively  testing  the  quality  of  his  own  conduct  and  mo- 
tives by  the  touch-stone  of  the  rare  personality  beside  him; 
and  they  had  stood  the  trial.  There  was  such  pain,  such  sin 
cerity,  above  all  such  freedom  from  littleness  of  soul  implied  in 
words  and  looks  that  Mr.  Grey  quickly  held  out  his  hand. 
Eobert  grasped  it,  and  felt  that  the  way  was  clear  before  him, 

*'Will  you  give  me  an  account  of  it?"  said  Mr.  Grey,  an(^ 
his  tone  was  grave  sympathy  itself .  Or  would  you  rather 
confine  yourself  to  generalities  and  accomplished  facts?" 

will  try  and  give  you  an  account  of  it,"  said  Robert;  and 
sitting  there  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  gaze  fixed  on  the 
yellowing  afternoon  sky,  and  the  intricacies  of  the  garden  walls 
between  them  and  the  new  museum,  he  went  through  the  his- 
tory of  the  last  two  years.  He  described  the  beginnings  of  his 
historical  work,  the  gradual  enlargement  of  the  mind's  hori- 
zons, and  the  intrusion  within  them  of  question  after  question, 
and  subject  after  subject.  Then  he  mentioned  the  squire's 
name. 

Ah!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Grey,  I  had  forgotten  you  were  that 
man's  neighbor.  I  wonder  he  didn't  set  you  against  the  whole 
business,  inhuman  old  cynic !" 

He  spoke  with  the  strong  dislike  of  the  idealist,  devoted  in 
practice  to  an  every-day  ministry  to  human  need,  for  the  in- 
tellectual egotist.  Eobert  caught  and  relished  the  old  pugna- 
cious flash  in  the  eye,  the  Midland  strength  of  accent. 

Cynic  he  is,  not  altogether  inhuman,  I  think.  I  fought  him 
about  his  drains  and  his  cottages,  however"— and  he  smiled 
sadly— before  I  began  to  read  his  books.  But  the  man's 
genius  is  incontestable,  his  learning  enormous.  He  found  me 
in  a  susceptible  state,  and  I  recognize  that  his  influence  im- 
mensely accelerated  a  process  already  begun." 

Mr.  Grey  was  struck  with  the  simplicity  and  fullness  of  the 
avowal.  A  lesser  man  would  hardly  have  made  it  in  the  same 
way.  Rising  to  pace  up  and  down  the  room — the  familiar  ac- 
tion recalling  vividly  to  Robert  the  Sunday  afternoons  of  by- 
gone years— he  began  to  put  questions  with  a  clearness  and 
decision  that  made  them  so  many  guides  to  the  man  answer- 
ing, through  the  tangle  of  his  own  recollections. 


412 


EGBERT  ELSMERE. 


"I  see,"  said  the  tutor,  at  last,  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of 
his  short  gray  coat,  his  brow  bent  and  thoughtful.  *'Well, 
the  process  in  you  has  been  the  typical  process  of  the  present 
day.  Abstract  thought  has  had  little  or  nothing  to  say  to  it. 
It  has  been  all  a  question  of  literary  and  historical  evidence.  1 
am  old  fashioned  enough" — and  he  smiled — "to  stick  to  the  d 
priori,  impossibily  of  miracles,  but  then  I  am  a  philosopher! 
You  have  come  to  see  how  miracle  is  manufactured,  to  recog- 
nize in  it  merely  a  natural  inevitable  outgrowth  of  human  tes- 
timony,  in  its  pre-scientific  stages.  It  has  been  aU  experi- 
mental, inductive.  I  imagine"— he  looked  up— **you  didn't 
get  much  help  out  of  the  orthodox  apologists?" 

Eobert  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
It  often  seemed  to  me,"  he  said,  drearily,  **I  might  have 
got  through,  but  for  the  men  whose  books  I  used  to  read  and 
respect  most  in  old  days.  The  point  of  view  is  generally  so 
extraordinarily  limited.  Westcott,  for  instance,  who  means  so 
much  nowadays  to  the  English  religious  world,  first  isolates 
Christianity  from  aU  the  other  religious  phenomena  of  the 
world,  and  then  argues  upon  its  details.  You  might  as  well 
isolate  English  jurisprudence,  and  discuss  its  dietails  without 
any  reference  to  Teutonic  custon  or  Koman  law !  You  may 
be  as  logical  or  as  learned  as  you  like  within  the  limits  chosen, 
but  the  whole  result  is  false !  You  treat  Christian  witness  and 
Biblical  literature  as  you  would  treat  no  other  witness  and  no 
other  Mterature  in  the  world.  And  you  can  not  show  cause 
enough.  For  your  reasons  depend  on  the  very  witness  under 
dispute.   And  so  you  go  on  arguing  in  a  circle,  ad  infinitum,'*^ 

But  his  voice  dropped.  The  momentary  eagerness  died  away 
as  quickly  as  it  had  risen,  leaving  nothing  but  depression  be- 
hind it. 

Mr.  Grey  meditated.  At  last  he  said,  with  a  delicate  change 
of  tone: 

"And  now— if  I  may  ask  it,  Elsmere— how  far  has  this 
destructive  process  gone?" 

"I  can't  teU  you,"  said  Eobert,  turning  away  almost  with  a 
groan ;  "  I  only  know  that  the  things  I  loved  once  I  love  still, 
and  that — ^that — if  I  had  the  heart  to  think  at  aU  I  should  see 
more  of  God  in  the  world  than  I  ever  saw  before." 

The  tutor's  eye  flashed.  Robert  had  gone  back  to  the  win- 
dow, and  was  miserably  looking  out.  After  all,  he  had  told 
pnly  half  his  story. 

i 


ROBERT  BLSMERE. 


418 


*'  And  so  you  feel  you  must  give  up  your  living?" 
''What  else  is  therefor  me  to  do?"  cried  Robert,  turning 
upon  him,  startled  by  the  slow,  deliberate  tone. 

''Well,  of  course,  you  know  that  there  are  many  men,  men 
with  whom  both  you  and  I  are  acquainted,  who  hold  very  much 
what  I  imagine  your  opinions  now  are,  or  will  settlelinto,  who 
are  still  in  the  Church  of  England,  doing  admirable  work  there !" 

"I  know,"  said Elsmere,  quickly— "I  know;  I  can  not  con- 
ceive it,  nor  could  you.  Imagine  standing  up  Sunday  after 
Sunday  to  sa|^  the  things  you  do  not  beheve— using  words  as  a 
convention  which  those  who  hear  you  receive  as  literal  truth 
—and  trusting  the  maintenance  of  your  position  either  to  your 
neighbor's  forbearance  or  to  your  own  powers  of  evasion! 
With  the  ideas  at  present  in  my  head,  nothing  would  induce 
me  to  preach  another  Easter-day  sermon  to  a  cmigregation 
that  have  both  a  moral  and  a  legal  right  to  demand  from  me  an 
implicit  belief  in  the  material  miracle !" 

"Yes,"  said  the  other,  gravely— " yes,  I  believe  you  are 
right.  It  can't  be  said  the  Broad  Church  movement  has  helped 
us  much!  How  greatly  it  promised !— how  little  it  has  per- 
formed! For  the  private  person,  the  worshiper,  it  is  differ- 
ent— or  I  think  so.  No  man  pries  into  our  prayers ;  and  to  cut 
ourselves  off  from  common  worship  is  to  lose  that  fellowship 
which  is  in  itself  a  witness  and  vehicle  of  God." 

But  his  tone  had  grown  hesitating  and  touched  with  melan- 
choly. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Then  Robert  walked  up  to 
him  again. 

"At  the  same  time,"  he  said,  falteringly,  standing  before  the 
elder  man,  as  he  might  have  stood  as  an  under-graduate,  "let 
me  not  be  rash !  If  you  think  this  change  has  been  too  rapid 
to  last—  if  you,  knowing  me  better  than  at  this  moment  I  can 
know  myself— if  you  bid  me  wait  awhile,  before  I  take  any 
overt  step,  I  will  wait— oh,  God  knows  I  will  wait!— my 
wife  — "  and  his  husky  voice  failed  him  utterly. 

"  Your  wife !"  cried  Mr.  Grey,  startled.  Mrs.  Elsmere  does 
not  know?" 

"My  wife  knows  nothing,  or  almost  nothing— and  it  will 
break  her  heart." 

He  moved  hastily  away  again,  and  stood  with  his  back  to 
his  friend,  his  tall,  narrow  form  outlined  against  the  window. 
Mr.  Grey  was  left  in  dismay,  rapidly  turning  over  the  impres- 


414 


ROBEET  ELSMEEB. 


sions  of  Catherine  left  on  him  by  his  last  year's  sight  of  her. 
That  pale,  distinguished  woman  with  her  look  of  strength  and 
character— he  remembered  Langham's  analysis  of  her,  and  of 
the  silent  reH^ious  intensity  she  had  brought  with  her  from 
her  training  among  the  northern  hills. 

"Was  there  a  bitterly  human  tragedy  preparing  under  all 
this  thought-drama  he  had  been  listening  to? 

Deeply  moved,  he  went  up  to  Robert,  and  laid  his  rugged 
hand  almost  timidly  upon  him. 

''Elsmere,  it  won't  break  her  heart!  You  are  a  good  man. 
She  is  a  good  woman."  What  an  infinity  of  meaning  there 
was  in  the  simple  words!  ''Take  courage.  Tell  her  at  once 
—tell  her  everything— and  let  her  decide  whether  there  shall 
be  any  waiting.  I  can  not  help  you  there ;  she  can ;  she  will 
probably  understand  you  better  than  you  understand  yourself." 

He  tightened  his  grasp,  and  gently  pushed  his  guest  into  a 
chair  beside  him.  Robert  was  deadly  pale,  his  face  quivering 
painfully.  The  long  physical  strain  of  the  past  months  had 
weakened  for  the  moment  all  the  controlling  forces  of  the  will. 
Mr.  Grey  stood  over  him— the  whole  man  dilating,  expanding, 
under  a  tyrannous  stress  of  feeling. 

''It  is  hard,  it  is  bitter,"  he  said,  slowly,  with  a  wonderful 
manly  tenderness.  "I  know  it,  I  have  gone  through  it.  So 
has  many  and  many  a  poor  soul  that  you  and  I  have  known ! 
But  there  need  be  no  sting  in  the  wound  unless  we  ourselves 
envenom  it.  I  know— oh!  I  know  very  well— the  man  of  the 
world  scoffs,  but  to  him  who  has  once  been  a  Christian  of  the 
old  sort,  the  parting  with  the  Christian  mythology  is  the  rend- 
ing asunder  of  bones  and  marrow.  It  means  parting  with  half 
the  confidence,  half  the  joy,  of  life!  But  take  heart,"  and  the 
tone  grew  still  more  solemn,  still  more  penetrating.  "  It  is  the 
education  of  God !  Do  not  imagine  it  will  put  you  further  from 
Him !  He  is  in  criticism,  in  science,  in  doubt,  so  long  as  the 
doubt  is  a  pure  and  honest  doubt,  as  yours  is.  He  is  in  all  fife, 
in  all  thought.  The  thought  of  man,  as  it  has  shaped  itself  in 
institutions,  in  philosophies,  in  science,  in  patient  critical  work, 
or  in  the  life  of  charity,  is  the  one  continuous  revelation  of  God  I 
Look  for  Him  in  it  all ;  see  how,  Kttle  by  little,  the  divine  in- 
dwelHng  force,  using  as  its  tools— but  merely  as  its  tools  I— 
man's  physical  appetites  and  conditions,  has  built  up  conscience 
and  the  moral  life ;  think  how  every  faculty  of  the  mind  haa 
been  trained  in  turn  to  take  its  part  in  the  great  work  of  faith 


210BERT  ELSMERE. 


415 


Upon  the  visible  irorM }  Love  and  imagination  built  up  religion 
—shall  reason  destroy  ifc?  No !— reason  is  God's,  like  the  rest  I 
Trust  it— trust  Him.  Xhe  leading-strings  of  the  past  are  drop- 
ping from  you ;  they  are  dropping  from  the  world,  not  wanton- 
ly, or  by  chance,  but  in  the  providence  of  God.  Learn  the  les- 
son of  your  own  pain-  -learn  to  seek  God,  not  in  any  single  event 
of  past  history,  but  in  your  own  soul— in  the  constant  verifica- 
tions of  experience,  in  the  life  of  Christian  love.  Spiritually 
you  have  gone  through  the  last  wrench,  I  promise  it  you!  You 
being  what  you  are,  nothing  can  cut  this  ground  from  under 
your  feet.  Whatever  may  have  been  the  forms  of  human  be- 
lief, faith,  the  faith  which  saves,  has  always  been  rooted  here  I 
All  things  change— creeds  and  philosophies  and  outward  sys- 
tems—but God  remains  I 

'  Life,  that  in  me  has  rest. 
As  I,  undying  Life,  have  power  in  Theel' 

The  lines  dropped  with  low  vibrating  force  from  lips  unac- 
customed indeed  to  such  aa  outburst.  The  speaker  stood  a 
moment  longer  in  silence  beside  the  figure  in  the  chair,  and  it 
seemed  to  Robert,  gazing  at  him  with  fixed  eyes,  that  the  man's 
whole  presence,  at  once  so  homely  and  so  majestic,  was  charged 
with  benediction.  It  was  as  though  invisible  hands  of  healing 
and  consecration  had  been  laid  upon  him.  The  fiery  soul  beside 
him  had  kindled  anew  the  drooping  life  of  his  own.  So  the  torch 
of  God  passes  on  its  way,  hand  reaching  out  to  hand. 

He  bent  forward,  stammering  incoherent  words  of  assent  and 
gratitude,  he  knew  not  what.  Mr.  Grey,  who  had  sunk  into 
his  chair,  gave  him  time  to  recover  himself.  The  intensity  of 
the  tutor's  own  mood  relaxed;  and  presently  he  began  to  talk 
to  his  guest,  in  a  wholly  different  tone,  of  the  practical  detail 
of  the  step  before  him,  supposing  it  to  be  taken  immediately, 
discussing  the  probable  attitude  of  Eobert's  bishop,  the  least 
conspicuous  mode  of  withdrawing  from  the  living,  and  so  on- 
all  with  gentleness  and  sympathy  indeed,  but  with  an  indefina- 
ble change  of  manner,  which  showed  that  he  felt  it  well  both 
for  himself  and  Elsmere  to  repress  any  further  expression  of 
emotion.  There  was  something,  a  vein  of  stoicism  perhaps,  in 
Mr.  Grey's  temper  of  mind,  which,  while  it  gave  a  special  force 
and  sacredness  to  his  rare  moments  of  fervent  speech,  was  wont 
in  general  to  make  men  more  self  controlled  than  usual  in  hia 
i?resence.   Robert  felt  now  the  bracing  force  of  ii. 


41  g  ROBERT  fitSMMfi. 

Will  you  stay  with  us  to  dinner?"  Mr.  orrey  aske4  when  at 
last  Elsmere  got  up  to  go.  There  nre  on^  or  two  lone  Fellows 
coining— asked  before  your  telegram  came,  oi  course.  Do  ex- 
actly as  you  like." 

''1  think  not,"  said  Robert,  after  a  pause.      I  longed  to  see 
you,  but  I  am  not  fit  for  general  society." 

Mr.  Grey  did  not  press  him.   He  rose  and  went  with  his  vis- 
itor to  the  door. 

Good-bye,  good-bye  I  Let  me  always  know  what  I  can  do 
for  you.  And  your  wife— poor  thing,  poor  thing  I  Go  and  tell 
her,  Elsmere;  don't  lose  a  moment  you  can  help.  God  help 
her  and  you  I" 

iThey  grasped  each  other's  hands.  Mr.  Grey  followed  him 
down  the  stairs  and  along  the  nari-ow  hall.  He  opened  the  hall 
door,  and  smiled  a  last  smile  of  encouragement  and  sympathy 
into  the  eyes  that  expressed  such  a  young  moved  gratituiie. 
The  door  closed.  Little  did  Ebmere  realize  that  never,  in  this 
life,  would  he  see  that  smile  or  bsar  that  voice  again  I 

CHAFTEfC  XXVIIL 

In  half  an  hour  from  the  time  Mr.  Grey^s  door  closed  upon 
him,  Elsmere  had  caught  a  convenient  cross-country  train,  and 
had  left  the  Oxford  towors,  and  spires,  the  shrunken  summer 
Isis,  and  the  flat,  hot  river  meadows  far  behind  him.  He  had 
meant  to  stay  at  Mertou,  as  we  know,  for  the  night.  Now,  his 
one  thought  was  to  got  back  to  Catherine.  The  urgency  of 
Mr.  Grey's  words  wa/3  upon  him,  and  love  had  a  miserable 
pang  that  it  should  have  needed  to  be  urged. 

By  eight  o'clock  he  was  again  at  Churton.  There  were  no 
carriages  waiting  at  the  little  station,  but  the  thought  of  the  ; 
walk  across  the  darkening  common  through  the  August  moon- 
rise  had  been  a  refreshment  to  him  in  the  heat  and  crowd  of  the 
train.  He  hurried  through  the  small  town,  where  the  streets 
were  full  of  summer  idlers,  and  the  lamps  were  twinkling  in 
the  still,  balmy  air,  along  a  dusty  stretch  of  road,  leaving  man 
and  his  dweUings  further  and  further  to  the  rear  of  him,  till  at 
last  he  emerged  on  a  boundless  tract  of  common,  and  struck  to 
the  right  into  a  cart-track  leading  to  Murewell. 

He  was  on  the  top  of  a  high  sandy  ridge,  looking  west  and 
north,  over  a  wide  evening  world  of  heather  and  wood  and  hill. 
To  the  right,  far  ahead,  across  the  misty  lower  grounds  inu» 


i 


rob£:bt  elsmeee. 


41? 


which  he  was  soon  to  plunge,  rose  the  woods  of  Murewell,  black 
and  massive  in  the  twilight  distance.  To  the  left,  but  on  a 
nearer  plane,  the  undulating  common  stretching  downward 
from  where  he  stood  rose  suddenly  toward  a  height  crowned 
with  a  group  of  gaunt  and  jagged  firs— landmarks  for  aU  the 
plain—of  which  every  ghostly  bough  and  crest  was  now  sharp- 
ly outlined  against  a  luminous  sky.  For  the  wide  heaven  in 
front  of  him  was  still  delicately  glowing  in  all  its  under  parts 
with  soft  harmonies  of  dusky  red  or  blue,  while  in  its  higher 
zone  the  same  tract  of  sky  was  closely  covered  with  the  finest 
net-work  of  pearl-white  cloud,  suif  used  at  the  moment  with  a 
sHver  radiance,  so  intense  that  a  spectator  m.ight  almost  have 
dreamed  the  moon  had  forgotten  its  familiar  place  of  rising, 
and  was  about  to  mount  into  a  startled,  expectant  west.  Not 
a  light  in  all  the  wide  expanse,  and  for  awhile  not  a  sound  of 
human  life,  save  the  beat  of  Eobert's  step,  or  the  occasional 
tap  of  his  stick  against  the  pebbles  of  the  road. 

Presently  he  reached  the  edge  of  the  ridge  whence  the  rough 
track  he  was  following  sunk  sharply  to  the  lower  levels.  Here 
was  a  marvelous  point  of  view,  and  the  rector  stood  a  moment, 
beside  a  bare,  weather-blasted  fir,  a  ghostly  shadow  thrown 
behind  him.  AU  around  the  gorse  and  heather  seemed  stm 
radiating  light,  as  though  the  air  had  been  so  drenched  in  sun- 
shine that  even  long  after  the  sun  had  vanished  the  invading 
darkness  found  itself  still  unable  to  win  firm  possession  of 
earth  and  sky.  Every  little  stone  in  the  sandy  road  was  still 
weirdly  visible;  the  color  of  the  heather,  now  in  lavish  bloom, 
could  be  felt  though  hardly  seen. 

Before  him  melted  line  after  line  of  woodland,  broken  by 
hollow  afterhoUow,  filled  with  vaporous  wreaths  of  mist.  About 
him  were  the  sounds  of  a  wild  nature.  The  air  was  resonant 
with  the  purring  of  the  night-jars,  and  every  now  and  then  he 
caught  the  loud  clap  of  their  wings  as  they  swayed  unsteadily 
through  the  furze  and  bracken.  Overhead  a  trio  of  wild  ducks 
flew  across,  from  pond  to  pond,  their  hoarse  cry  descending 
through  the  darkness.  The  partridges  on  the  hill  caUed  to 
tech  other,  and  certain  sharp  sounds  betrayed  to  the  solitary 
MBtener  the  presence  of  a  flock  of  swans  on  a  neighboring  pool. 

The  rector  felt  himself  alone  on  a  wide  earth.  It  was  almost 
With  a  start  of  pleasure  that  he  caught  at  last  the  barking  of 
dogs  on  a  few  distant  farms,  or  the  dim  thunderotffis  rush  of  a 
^in  through  the  wide  wooded  landscape  beyond  the  heath. 


1 


418  EOBERT  KLSMERB. 

Behind  that  frowing  mass  of  wood  lay  the  rectory.  The 
lights  must  be  lighted  in  the  Httle  drawing-room;  Catherine 
must  be  sitting  by  the  lamp,  her  fine  head  bent  over  book  or 
work,  grieving  for  him  perhaps,  her  anxious,  expectant  heart 
going  out  to  him  through  the  dark.  He  thinks  of  the  village 
lying  wrapped  in  the  peace  of  the  August  night,  the  lamp-rays 
from  shop-front  or  casement  streaming  out  on  to  the  green ;  he 
thinks  of  his  child,  of  his  dead  mother,  feeling  heavy  and  bit- 
ter within  him  all  the  time  the  message  of  separation  and 
exile. 

But  his  mood  was  no  longer  one  of  mere  dread,  of  Ehelpless 
pain,  of  miserable  self -scorn.  Contact  with  Henry  Grey  had 
brought  him  that  rekindling-  of  the  flame  of  conscience,  that 
medicinal  stirring  of  the  soul's  waters,  which  is  the  most  pre- 
cious boon  that  man  can  give  to  man.  In  that  sense  which  at- 
taches to  every  successive  resurrection  of  our  best  life  from 
the  shades  of  despair  or  selfishness,  he  had  that  day,  almost 
that  hour,  been  bom  again.  He  was  no  longer  filled  mainly  with 
the  sense  of  personal  failure,  with  scorn  for  his  own  blimder- 
ing,  impetuous  temper,  so  lacking  in  prescience  and  in  balance; 
or,  in  respect  to  his  wife,  with  such  an  anguished,  impotent  re- 
morse. He  was  nerved  and  braced;  whatever  oscillations 
the  mind  might  go  through  in  its  search  for  another  equiUb- 
rium,  to-night  there  was  a  moment  of  calm.  The  earth  to  him 
was  once  more  full  of  God,  existence  full  of  value. 

The  things  I  have  always  loved,  I  love  still  1"  he  had  said 
to  Mr.  Grey.  And  in  this  healing  darkness  it  was  as  if  the  old 
loves,  the  old  familiar  images  of  thought,  returned  to  him  new/. 
clad,|re-entering  the  desolate  heart  in  a  white-winged  process 
sion  of  consolation.  On  the  heath  beside  him  the  Christ  stood 
once  more,  and  as  the  disciple  felt  the  sacred  presence  he 
could  bear  for  the  first  time  to  let  the  chafing  pent-up  current 
of  love  flow  into  the  new  channels,  so  painfully  prepared  for  it 
by  the  toil  of  thought.  ' '  Either  God  or  an  impostor:'  What 
scorn  the  heart,  the  intellect,  threw  on  the  alternative!  Not 
in  the  dress  of  speculations  which  represent  the  product  of 
long  past,  long  superseded  looms  of  human  thought,  but  in  the 
guise  of  common  manhood,  laden  like  his  fellows  with  the 
pathetic  weight  of  human  weakness  and  human  ignorance,  the 
Master  moves  toward  him : 

''Like  you,  my  son,  I  struggled  and  I  prayed.   Like  you,  I 
had  my  days  of  doubt  and  nights  of  wrestling.   I  had  my 


BOBEBT  ELSMEBE. 


419 


dreams,  my  delusions,  with  my  fellows.  I  was  weak;  I  suf- 
fered; I  died.  But  God  was  in  me,  and  the  courage,  the 
patience,  the  love  He  gave  to  me,  the  scenes  of  the  poor  human 
life  He  inspired,  have  become  by  His  will  the  world's  eternal 
lesson — man's  primer  of  divine  things,  hung  high  in  the  eyes  of 
all,  simple  and  wise,  that  all  may  see  and  all  may  learn.  Take 
it  to  your  heart  again — that  life,  that  pain,  of  mine !  Use  it  to 
new  ends ;  apprehend  it  in  new  ways ;  but  knowledge  shall  not 
take  it  from  you ;  and  love,  instead  of  weakening  or  forget- 

j  ting,  if  it  be  but  faithful,  shall  find  ever  fresh  power  of  real- 

I  izing  and  renewing  itself." 

I  So  said  the  vision;  and  carrying  the  passion  of  it  deep  in  his 
heart  the  rector  went  his  way,  down  the  long  stony  hill,  past 
the  solitary  farm  amid  the  trees  at  the  foot  of  it,  across  the 
grassy  common  beyond,  with  its  sentinel  clumps  of  beeches, 
passed  an  ethereal  string  of  tiny  lakes  just  touched  by  the  moon- 

\  rise,  beside  some  of  the  first  cottages  of  Murewell,  up  the  hill, 
with  pulse  beating  and  step  quickening,  and  round  into  the 
stretch  of  road  leading  to  his  own  gate. 

As  soon  as  he  had  passed  the  screen  made  by  the  shrubs  on 
the  lawn,  he  saw  it  all  as  he  had  seen  it  in  his  waking  dream 
on  the  common— the  lamp-Hght,  the  open  windows,  the  white 
muslin  curtains,  swaying  a  little  in  the  soft  evening  air,  and 
Catherine's  figure  seen  dimly  through  them. 

The  noise  of  the  gate,  however— of  the  steps  on  the  drive- 
had  startled  her.  He  saw  her  rise  quickly  from  her  low  chair, 
put  some  work  down  beside  her,  and  move  in  haste  to  the  win- 
dow. 

*  *  Eobert !"  she  cried,  in  amazement. 
Yes,"  he  answered,  stiU  some  yards  from  her,  his  voice 
coming  strangely  to  her  out  of  the  moonlighted  darkness.  I 
did  my  errand  early ;  I  found  I  could  get  back ;  and  here  I  am." 

She  flew  to  ihe  door,  opened  it,  and  felt  herself  caught  in  his 
arms. 

**  Eobert,  you  are  quite  damp,"  she  said,  fluttering  and 
shrinking,  for  all  her  sweet  habitual  gravity  of  manner— was  it 
the  passion  of  that  yearning  embrace  ?     Have  you  walked  ?" 

Yes.  It  is  the  dew  on  the  common,  I  suppose.  The  grass 
was  drenched." 

"  Will  you  have  some  food  ?  They  can  bring  back  the  sup- 
per directly." 

X  don't  waut  any  food  now,"  he  said,  hanging  up  his  hat. 


420 


BOBEBT  ELSMEBE. 


I  got  some  lunch  in  town,  and  a  cup  of  soup  at  Heading  com. 
ing  back.  Perhaps  you  will  give  me  some  tea  soon— not  yet.'* 
He  came  up  to  her,  pushing  back  the  thick,  disordered  locks 
of  hail'  from  his  eyes  with  one  hand,  the  other  held  out  to  her. 
As  he  came  under  the  light  of  the  hall  lamp  she  was  so 
startled  by  the  gray  pallor  of  the  face  that  she  caught  hold  of 
his  outstretched  hand  with  both  hers.  What  she  said  he  never 
]£new— her  look  was  enough.  He  put  his  arm  round  her,  and 
as  he  opened  the  drawing-room  door,  holding  her  pressed 
against  him,  she  felt  the  desperate  agitation  in  him  penetrating, 
beating  against  an  almost  iron  self-control  of  manner.  He  shut 
the  door  behind  them. 

Robert,  dear  Robert!"  she  said,  clinging  to  him,  there  is 
bad  news— tell  me— there  is  something  to  tell  me!  Oh!  what 
is  it— what  is  it  ?" 

It  was  almost  like  a  child's  wail.   His  brow  contracted  still 
more  painfully. 

''My  darUng,"  he  said;  '*  my  darUng— my  dear,  dear  wife!" 
and  he  bent  his  head  down  to  her  as  she  lay  against  his  breast,  ! 
kissing  her  hair  with  a  passion  of  pity,  of  remorse,  of  tender-  1 
ness,  which  seemed  to  rend  his  whole  nature.  • 

' '  Tell  me— tell  me— Robert !"  ! 

He  guided  her  gently  across  the  room,  past  the  sofa  over|) 
which  her  work  lay  scattered,  past  the  flower-table,  now  a 
many-colored  mass  of  roses,  which  was  her  especial  pride,  past  u 
the  remains  of  a  brick  castle  which  had  dehghted  Mary's  won-  n 
dering  eyes  and  mischievous  fingers  an  hour  or  two  before,  to 
a  low  chair  by  the  open  window  looking  on  the  wide  moonlights 
ed  expanse  of  corn-field.   He  put  her  into  it,  walked  to  the  win-i 
dow  on  the  other  side  of  the  room,  shut  it,  and  drew  down  the 
blind.   Then  he  went  back  to  her,  and  sunk  down  beside  her, 
kneehng,  her  hands  in  his. 

"  My  dear  wife— you  have  loved  me— you  do  love  me?" 

She  could  not  answer,  she  could  only  press  his  hands  with 
her  cold  fingers,  with  a  look  and  gesture  that  implored  him  to 
speak. 

''Catherine,"  he  said,  still  kneeling  before  her,  "you  re- 
member that  night  you  came  down  to  me  in  the  study,  the 
night  I  told  you  I  was  in  trouble  and  you  could  not  help  me. 
Did  you  guess  from  what  I  said  what  the  trouble  was?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  trembling,  "yes,  I  did,  Robert;  I 
thought  you  were  depressed— troubled— about  religioiu'* 


BOBERT  ELSMERE. 


421 


*'  ^xid  X  know,"  he  said,  with  an  outburst  of  feeling,  kissing 
her  hands  as  they  lay  in  his— know  very  well  that  you 
went  upstairs  and  prayed  for  me,  nay  white-souled  angel !  But 
Catherine,  the  trouble  grew— it  got  blacker  and  blacker.  You 
were  there  beside  me,  and  you  could  not  help  me.  I  dared  not 
tell  you  about  it;  I  could  only  struggle  on  alone,  so  terribly 
alone,  sometimes;  and  now  I  am  beaten,  beaten.  And  I  come 
to  you  to  ask  you  to  help  me  in  the  only  thing  that  remains  to 
me.  Help  me,  Catherine,  to  be  an  honest  man— to  follow  con- 
science—to say  and  do  the  truth !" 

Robert,"  she  said,  piteously,  deadly  pale,  *M  don't  under- 
stand." 

Oh,  my  poor  darling!"  he  cried,  with  a  kind  of  moan  of 
pity  and  misery.  Then  still  holding  her,  he  said,  with  strong, 
deliberate  emphasis,  looking  into  the  gray-blue  eyes— the  quiv- 
ering face  so  full  of  austerity  and  delicacy:  For  six  or  seven 
months,  Catherine— really  for  much  longer,  though  I  never 
knew  it— I  have  been  fighting  with  doubt— doubt  of  orthodox 
Christianity— doubt  of  what  the  Church  teaches— of  what  I 
have  to  say  and  preach  every  Sunday.  First  it  crept  on  me  I 
knew  not  how.  Then  the  weight  grew  heavier,  and  I  began  to 
struggle  with  it.  I  felt  I  must  struggle  with  it.  Many  men,  I 
suppose,  in  my  position  would  have  trampled  on  their  doubts- 
would  have  regarded  them  as  sin  in  themselves,  would  have 
felt  it  their  duty  to  ignore  them  as  much  as  possible,  trusting 
to  time  and  God's  help.  I  could  not  ignore  them.  The  thought 
of  questioning  the  most  sacred  beliefs  that  you  and  I  "—and 
his  voice  faltered  a  moment— held  in  common  was  misery  to 
me,  On  the  other  hand,  I  knew  myself.  I  knew  that  I  could 
no  more  go  on  living  to  any  purpose,  with  a  whole  region  of 
the  mind  shut  up,  as  it  were,  barred  away  from  the  rest  of  me, 
than  I  could  go  on  living  with  a  secret  between  myself  and 
you.  I  could  not  hold  my  faith  by  a  mere  tenure  of  tyranny 
and  fear.  Faith  that  is  not  free— that  is  not  the  faith  of  the 
whole  creature,  body,  soul,  and  intellect— seemed  to  me  a  faith 
worthless  both  to  God  and  man !" 

Catherine  looked  at  him,  stupefied.  The  world  seemed  to  be 
turning  round  her.  Infinitely  more  terrible  than  his  actual 
words  was  the  accent  running  through  words  and  tone  and 
gesture— the  accent  of  irreparableness,  as  of  something  dismally 
done  and  finished.   What  did,  it  all  mean?  For  what  had  he 


422 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


brought  her  there?  She  sat  stunned,  realizing  with  awful 
force  the  feebleness,  the  inadequacy,  of  her  own  fears. 

He,  meanwhile,  had  paused  a  moment,  meeting  her  gaze 
with  those  yearning,  sunken  eyes.  Then  he  went  on,  his 
voice  changing  a  httle: 

**But  if  I  had  wished  it  ever  so  much,  I  could  not  have 
helped  myself.  The  process,  so  to  speak,  had  gone  too  far  by 
the  time  I  knew  where  I  was.  I  think  the  change  must  have 
begun  before  the  Mile  End  time.  Looking  back,  I  see  the 
foundations  were  laid  in — in — the  work  of  last  winter." 

She  shivered.  He  stooped  and  kissed  her  hands  again  pas- 
sionately. Am  I  poisoning  even  the  memory  of  our  past  for 
you?"  he  cried.  Then,  restraining  himself  at  once,  he  hiuried 
on  again:  After  Mile  End  you  remember  I  began  to  see  much 
of  the  squire.  Oh,  my  wife,  don't  look  at  me  so !  It  was  not 
his  doing  in  any  true  sense.  I  am  not  such  a  weak  shuttlecock 
as  that !  But  being  where  I  was  before  our  intimacy  began, 
his  influence  hastened  everything.  I  don't  wish  to  minimize 
it.   I  was  not  made  to  stand  alone !" 

And  again  that  bitter,  perplexed,  half -scornful  sense  of  his 
own  pHancy  at  the  hands  of  circumstance  as  compared  with  the 
rigidity  of  other  men  descended  upon  him.  Catherine  made 
a,  faint  movement  as  though  to  draw  her  bands  away. 

''Was  it  well,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  which  sounded  Hke  a 
harsh  echo  of  her  own,  *'  was  it  right  for  a  clergyman  to  dis- 
cuss sacred  things — with  such  a  man?" 

He  let  her  hands  go,  guided  for  the  moment  by  a  delicate  im- 
i;)erious  instinct  which  bade  him  appeal  to  something  else  than 
(ove.  Eising,  he  sat  down  opposite  to  her  on  the  low  window 
Beat,  while  she  sunk  back  into  her  chair,  her  fingers  clinging  to 
^he  arm  of  it,  the  lamp-light  far  behind  deepening  all  the 
shadows  of  the  face,  the  hollows  in  the  cheeks,  the  Une  of  ex- 
perience and  will  about  the  mouth.  The  stupor  in  which  she 
had  just  listened  to  him  was  beginning  to  break  up.  Wild 
forces  of  condemnation  and  resistance  were  rising  in  her  ;  and 
he  knew  it.  He  knew,  too,  that  as  yet  she  only  half  realized 
the  situation,  and  that  blow  after  blow  still  remained  to  him 
to  deal. 

*'Was  it  right  that  I  should  discuss  religious  matters  with 
the  squire  ?"  he  repeated,  his  f  ace  resting  on  his  hands.  ' '  What 
are  religious  matters,  Catherine,  and  what  are  not?" 

Then,  still  controlling  himself  rigidly,  fiis  eyes  fixed  on  the 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


423 


Bhadowy  face  of  his  wife,  his  ear  catching  her  quick  uneven 
^   breath,  he  went  once  more  through  the  dismal  history  of  the 
■    last  few  months,  dwelling  on  his  state  of  thought  before  the 
intimacy  with  Mr.  Wendover  began,  on  his  first  attempts  to 
,^  escape  the  squire's  influence,  on  his  gradual,  pitiful  surrender. 
1^  Then  he  told  the  story  of  the  last  memorable  walk  before  the 
•  I  squire's  journey,  of  the  moment  in  the  study  afterward,  and 
^  of  the  months  of  feverish  reading  and  wrestling  which  had 
followed.   Half-way  through  it  a  new  despair  seized  him. 
^  I  What  was  the  good  of  all  he  was  saying?  He  was  speaking  a 
I  language  she  did  not  really  understand.   What  were  all  these 
^  critical  and  literary  considerations  to  her? 
^  I    The  rigidity  of  her  silence  showed  him  that  her  sympathy 
I  was  not  with  him,  that  in  comparison  with  the  vibrating  pro- 
1^  I  test  of  her  own  passionate  faith  which  must  be  now  ringing 
I  through  her,  whatever  he  could  urge  must  seem  to  her  the 
J I  merest  culpable  trifling  with  the  soul's  awful  destinies.   In  an 
iidstant  of  tumultuous  speech  he  could  not  convey  to  her  the 
^  temper  and  results  of  his  own  complex  training,  and  on  that 
^  training,  as  he  very  well  knew,  depended  the  piercing,  con- 
^  vincing  force  of  all  that  he  was  saying.   There  were  gulfs  be- 
tween them— gulfs  which,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  in  a  miserable 
^  insiglht,  could  never  be  bridged  again.   Oh,  the  frightful  sepa- 

I  rateness  of  experience ! 
'  I    Still  he  struggled  on.   He  brought  the  story  down  to  the  con- 
^  versation  at  the  Hall,  described— in  broken  words  of  fire  and 
pain— the  moment  of  spiritual  wreck  which  had  come  upon 
I  him  in  the  August  lane,  his  night  of  struggle,  his  resolve  to  go 
^  to  Mr.  Grey.   And  all  through  he  was  not  so  much  narrating 
as  pleading  a  cause,  and  that  not  his  own,  but  Love's.  Love 
was  at  the  bar,  and  it  was  for  love  that  the  eloquent  voice,  the 
pale,  varying  face,  were  really  pleading,  through  all  the  long 
I  story  of  intellectual  change. 

,  At  the  mention  of  Mr.  Grey  Catherine  grew  restless ;  she  sat 
J  up  suddenly,  with  a  cry  of  bitterness. 

^  *  *  Robert,  why  did  you  go  away  from  me?  It  was  cruel.  I 
Bhould  have  known  first.   He  had  no  right— no  right !" 

^     She  clasped  her  hands  round  her  knees,  her  beautiful  mouth 

J  set  and  stern.  The  moon  had  been  sailing  westward  all  this 
time,  and  as  Catherine  bent  forward  the  yellow  light  caught 

^  her  face,  and  brought  out  the  haggard  change  in  it.  He  held 
out  his  hands  to  her  with  a  low  groan,  helpless  against  her  rf 


424  BOBSBT  ELSMBBE.  1| 

proach,  her  jealousy.   He  dared  not  speak  of  what  Mr.  Grey  1 

had  done  for  him,  of  the  tenderness  of  his  counsel  toward  her 
specially.  He  felt  that  everything  he  could  say  would  but 
torture  the  wounded  heart  stiU  more. 

But  she  did  not  notice  the  outstretched  hand.  She  covered 
her  face  in  silence  a  moment,  as  though  trying  to  see  her 
way  more  clearly  through  the  mazes  of  disaster;  and  he 
waited.   At  last  she  looked  up.  I 

''I  cannot  follow  all  you  have  been  saying,"  she  said,  almost 
harshly.        know  so  Uttle  of  books,  I  can  not  give  them  the 
place  you  do.   You  say  you  have  convinced  yourself  the  6o9- ' 
pels  are  like  other  books,  full  of  mistakes,  and  credulous,  like 
the  people  of  the  time;  and  therefore  you  can't  take  what  they 
say  as  you  used  to  take  it.   But  what  does  it  all  quite  mean?  \ 
Oh,  I  am  not  clever— I  can  not  see  my  way  clear  from  thing  to 
thing  as  you  do.   If  there  are  mistakes,  does  it  matter  so— so — i 
terribly  to  you?"  and  she  faltered.      Do  you  think  nothing  is 
true  because  something  may  be  false  ?  Did  not— did  not— J esus 
still  live,  and  die,  and  rise  agam?— can  you  doubt— do  you 
doubt— that  He  rose— that  He  is  God— that  He  is  in  Heaven— 
that  we  shall  see  Him?"  , 

She  threw  an  intensity  into  every  word,  which  made  the 
short,  breathless  questions  thrill  through  her,  through  the  na- 
ture saturated  and  steeped  as  hers  was  in  Christian  association^  ', 
with  a  bitter,  accusing  force.  But  he  did  not  flinch  from  them.  ^ 
can  believe  no  longer  in  an  Incarnation  and  Resurrec- 
tion," he  said,  slowly,  but  with  a  resolute  plainness.  Christ 
is  risen  in  our  hearts,  in  the  Christian  life  of  charity.  Miracle 
is  a  natural  product  of  human  feeling  and  imagination;  and 
God  was  in  Jesus— pre-eminently,  as  He  is  in  all  great  souls, 
but  not  otherwise— not  otherwise  in  kind  than  He  is  in  me  or 
you." 

His  voice  dropped  to  a  whisper.  She  grew  paler  and  paler. 
So  to  you,"  she  said,  presently,  in  the  same  strange,  altered 
voice.  My  father— when  I  saw  that  light  on  his  face  before 
he  died,  when  I  heard  him  cry :  '  Master,  I  come  P  was  dying- 
deceived— deluded.  Perhaps  even,"  and  she  trembled,  ''you 
think  it  ends  here —our  life— our  love?" 

It  was  agony  to  him  to  see  her  driving  herself  through  this 
piteous  catechism.  The  lantern  of  memory  flashed  a  moment 
on  to  the  immortal  picture  of  Faust  and  Margaret.  Was  it 
not  only  that  winter  they  had  read  the  scene  together? 


ROBEET  ELSMEBE.  425 

Forcibly  he  possessed  himself  once  more  of  those  closely 
locked  hands,  pressing  their  coldness  on  his  own  burning  eyes 
and  forehead  in  hopeless  silence. 

'^Do  you,  Eobert  ?"  she  repeated,  insistently. 
I  know  nothing,"  he  said,  his  eyes  still  hidden.      I  know 
nothing  !  But  I  trust  God  with  all  that  is  dearest  to  me,  with 
our  love,  with  the  soul  that  is  His  breath.  His  Work  in  us  !" 

The  pressure  of  her  despair  seemed  to  be  wringing  his  own 
faith  out  of  him,  forcing  into  definiteness  things  and  thoughts 
that  had  been  lying  in  an  accepted,  even  a  welcomed,  obscurity. 

She  tried  again  to  draw  her  hands  away,  but  he  would  not 
let  them  go.  And  the  end  of  it  all,  Robert  she  said—*'  the 
end  of  it  ?" 

Never  did  he  forget  the  note  of  that  question,  the  desolation 
of  it,  the  indefinable  change  of  accent.  It  drove  him  into  a 
harsh  abruptness  of  reply. 

*  The  end  of  it— so  far— must  be,  if  I  remain  an  honest  man, 
that  I  must  give  up  my  living,  that  I  must  cease  to  be  a  min- 
ister of  the  Church  of  England.  What  the  course  of  our  life 
after  that  shall  be  is  in  your  hands— absolutely." 

She  caught  her  breath  painfully.  His  heart  was  breaking 
for  her,  and  yet  there  was  something  in  her  manner  now  which 
kept  down  caresses  and  repressed  all  words. 

Suddenly,  however,  as  he  sat  there  mutely  watching  her,  he 
found  her  at  his  knees,  her  dear  arms  around  him,  her  face 
against  his  breast. 

*' Robert,  my  husband,  my  darling,  it  can  not  be  !  It  is  a 
madness— a  delusion.  God  is  trying  you,  and  me  !  You  can 
not  be  planning  so  to  desert  Him,  so  to  deny  Christ— you  can 
not,  my  husband.  Come  away  with  me,  away  from  books  and 
work,  into  some  quiet  place  where  He  can  make  Himself  heard. 
You  are  overdone,  overdriven.  Do  nothing  now— say  nothing 
—except  to  me.  Be  patient  a  little,  and  He  will  give  you  back 
Himself  !  What  can  books  and  arguments  matter  to  you  or 
me  ?  Have  we  not  known  and  felt  Him  as  He  is— have  we 
not,  Robert  ?  Come  !" 

She  pushed  herself  backward,  smiling  at  him  with  an  ex- 
quisite tenderness.  The  tears  were  streaming  down  her  cheeks. 
They  were  wet  on  his  own.  Another  moment  and  Robert  would 
have  lost  the  only  clew  which  remained  to  him  through  the 
mists  of  this  bewildering  world.  He  would  have  yielded  again 
as  he  had  paany  times  yielded  before,  for  infinitely  less  reason 


1 


426  IftOBEBT  EtSM^ltS. 

to  the  urgent  pressure  of  another's  individuality,  and  having 
jeopardized  love  for  truth,  he  would  now  have  murdered— or 
tried  to  murder— in  himself  the  sense  of  truth  for  love.  • 
But  he  did  neither. 

Holding  her  close  pressed  against  him,  he  said,  in  breaks  of 
intense  speech:  '*If  you  wish,  Catherine,  I  will  wait— I  will 
wait  till  you  bid  me  speak— but  I  warn  you— there  is  something 
dead  in  me— something  gone  and  broken.  It  can  never  live 
again— except  in  forms  which  now  it  would  only  pain  you 
more  to  think  of.  It  is  not  that  I  think  differently  of  this  point 
or  that  point— but  of  life  and  rehgion  altogether.  I  see  Grod's 
purposes  in  quite  other  proportions,  as  it  were.  Christianity 
seems  to  me  something  small  and  local.  Behind  it,  around  it 
—including  it— I  see  the  great  drama  of  the  world,  sweeping 
on— led  by  God— from  change  to  change,  from  act  to  act.  It 
is  not  that  Christianity  is  false,  but  that  it  is  only  an  imperfect 
human  reflection  of  a  part  of  truth.  Truth  has  never  been, 
can  never  be,  contained  in  any  one  creed  or  system 

She  heard,  but  through  her  exhaustion,  through  the  bitter 
sinking  of  hope,  she  only  half  understood.  Only  she  realized 
that  she  and  he  were  alike  helpless— both  struggling  in  the  grip 
of  some  force  outside  themselves,  inexorable,  ineluctable. 

^Robert  felt  her  arms  relaxing,  felt  the  dead  weight  of  her 
iorm  against  him.  He  raised  her  to  her  feet,  he  half  carried 
her  to  the  door,  and  on  to  the  stairs.  She  was  nearly  fainting, 
but  her  will  held  it  at  bay.  He  threw  open  the  door  of  their 
room,  led  her  in,  lifted  her— unresisting— on  to  the  bed.  Then 
her  head  fell  to  one  side,  and  her  lips  grew  ashen.  In  an  in- 
stant or  two  he  had  done  for  her  all  that  his  medical  knowledge  i 
could  suggest  with  rapid,  decided  hands.  She  was  not  quite  i 
unconscious ;  she  drew  up  round  her,  as  though  with  a  strong, 
vague  sense  of  chill,  the  shawl  he  laid  over  her,  and  gradually 
the  sUghtest  shade  of  color  came  back  to  her  lips.  But  as  soon 
as  she  opened  her  eyes  and  met  those  of  Robert  fixed  upon  her, 
the  heavy  lids  dropped  again. 

Would  you  rather  be  alone  he  said  to  her,  kneeling  be- 
side her. 

She  made  a  faint  affirmative  movement  of  the  head,  and  the 
cold  hand  he  had  been  chafing  tried  feebly  to  withdraw  itself. 
He  rose  at  once,  and  stood  a  moment  beside  her,  looking  dowrn 
at  her.   Then  he  went. 


BOBEBT  ELSMEBE. 


427 


CHAPTER  XXTX. 

He  shut  the  door  softly  and  went  down-stairs  again.  It  was 
between  ten  and  eleven.  The  lights  in  the  lower  passage  were 
just  extinguished ;  every  one  else  in  the  house  had  gone  to  bed. 
Mechanically  he  stooped  and  put  away  the  child's  bricks,  he 
pushed  the  chairs  back  into  their  places,  and  then  he  paused 
awhile  before  the  open  window.  But  there  was  not  a  tremor 
on  the  set  face.  He  felt  himself  capable  of  no  more  emotion. 
The  fount  of  feeling,  of  pain^  was  for  the  moment  dried  up. 
What  he  was  mainly  noticing  was  the  eif  ect  of  some  occasional 
gusts  of  night  wind  on  the  moonlighted  corn-field;  the  silver 
ripples  they  sent  through  it;  the  shadows  thrown  by  some 
great  trees  in  the  western  corners  of  the  field ;  the  glory  of  the 
moon  itself  in  the  pale  immensity  of  the  sky. 

Presently  he  turned  away,  leaving  one  lamp  still  burning  in 
the  room,  softly  unlocked  the  hall  door,  took  his  hat,  and  went 
out.  He  walked  up  and  down  the  wood-path  or  sat  on  the 
bench  there  for  some  time,  thinking  indeed,  but  thinking  with 
a  certain  stern,  practical  dryness.  Whenever  he  felt  the  thrill 
of  feeling  stealing  over  him  again,  he  would  make  a  sharp 
effort  at  repression.  Physically,  he  could  not  bear  much  more, 
and  he  knew  it.  A  part  remained  for  him  to  play,  which  must 
be  played  with  tact,  with  prudence,  and  with  firmness. 
Strength  and  nerves  had  been  sufficiently  weakened  already. 
For  his  wife's  sake,  his  people's  sake,  his  honorable  reputa- 
tion's sake,  he  must  guard  himself  from  a  collapse  which  might 
mean  far  more  than  physical  failure. 

So  in  the  most  patient,  methodical  way  he  began  to  plan  out 
the  immediate  future.  As  to  waiting,  the  matter  was  still  in 
Catherine's  hands;  but  he  knew  that  finely  tempered  soul;  he 
knew  that  when  she  had  mastered  her  poor  woman's  self,  as 
she  had  always  mastered  it  from  her  childhood,  she  would  not 
bid  him  wait.  He  hardly  took  the  possibility  into  considera- 
tion. The  proposal  had  had  some  reality  in  his  eyes  when  he 
went  to  see  Mr.  Grey;  now  it  had  none,  though  he  could 
hardly  have  explained  why. 

He  had  already  made  arrangements  with  an  old  Oxford 
friend  to  take  hi^  duty  during  his  absence  on  the  Continent. 
It  had  been  originally  suggested  that  this  Mr.  Armitstead 
should  come  to  Murewell  on  the  Monday  following  the  Sunday 
they  were  now  approaching,  spend  a  few  davs  with  them 


428 


before  their  departure,  and  be  left  to  his  own  devices  in  the 
house  and  parish,  about  the  Thursday  or  Friday.  An  intense 
desire  now  seized  Eobert  to  get  hold  of  the  man  at  once,  before 
the  next  Sunday.  It  was  strange  how  the  interview  with  his 
wife  seemed  to  have  crystallized,  precipitated,  everything. 
How  infinitely  more  real  the  whole  matter  looked  to  him  since 
the  afternoon!  It  had  passed— at  any  rate  for  the  time— out 
of  the  region  of  thought,  into  the  hurrying  evolution  of  action, 
and  as  soon  as  action  began  it  was  characteristic  of  Robert's 
rapid  energetic  nature  to  feel  this  thirst,  to  make  it  as  prompt, 
as  complete,  as  possible.  The  fiery  soul  yearned  for  a  fresh 
consistency,  though  it  were  a  consistency  of  loss  and  renun- 
ciation. 

To-morrow  he  must  write  to  the  bishop.  The  bishop's  resi- 
dence was  only  eight  or  ten  miles  from  Mure  well;  he  supposed 
his  interview  with  him  would  take  place  about  Monday  or 
Tuesday.  He  could  see  the  tall,  stooping  figure  of  the  kindly 
old  man  rising  to  meet  him;  he  knew  exactly  the  sort  of  argu- 
ments that  would  be  brought  to  bear  upon  him.  Oh,  that  it 
were  done  with— this  wearisome  dialectical  necessity!  His 
hfe  for  months  had  been  one  long  argument.  If  he  were  but 
left  free  to  feel  and  live  again ! 

The  practical  matter  which  weighed  most  heavily  upon  him 
was  the  function  connected  with  the  opening  of  the  new  insti- 
tute, which  had  been  fixed  for  the  Saturday— the  next  day  but 
one.  How  was  he— but  much  more  how  was  Cathertne— to  get 
through  it?  His  lips  would  be  sealed  as  to  any  possible  with- 
drawal from  the  hving,  for  he  could  not  by  then  have  seen 
the  bishop.  He  looked  forward  to  the  gathering,  the  crowds, 
the  local  enthusiasm,  the  signs  of  his  own  popularity,  with  a 
sickening  distaste.  The  one  thing  real  to  him  through  it 
all  would  be  Catherine's  white  face,  and  their  bitter  joint 
consciousness.  • 

And  then  he  said  to  himself,  sharply,  that  his  own  feelings 
counted  for  nothing.  Catherine  should  be  tenderly  shielded 
from  all  avoidable  pain,  but  for  himself  there  must  be  no 
flinching,  no  self  -indulgent  weakness.  Did  he  not  owe  every 
last  hour  he  had  to  give  to  the  people  among  whom  he  had 
planned  to  spend  the  best  energies  of  life,  and  from  whom 
his  own  act  was  about  to  part  him  in  this  lame,  impotent 
fashion? 

Midnight!  The  sounds  rolled  silverly  out,  effacing  the  soft 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


429 


murmurs  of  the  night.  So  the  long,  interminable  day  was 
over,  and  a  new  morning  had  begun.  He  rose,  listening  to 
the  echoes  of  the  bell,  and-as  the  tide  of  feeling  surged 
back  upon  him— passionately  commending  the  new-born  day 
to  God. 

Then  he  turned  toward  the  house,  put  the  light  out  m  the 
drawing-room,  and  went  upstairs,  stepping  cautiously.  He 
opened  the  door  of  Catherine's  room.  The  moonUght  was 
streaming  in  through  the  white  blinds.  Catherine,  who  bad 
undressed,  was  lying  now  with  her  face  hidden  in  the  pillow, 
and  one  white^sleeved  arm  flung  across  little  Mary's  cot.  The 
night  was  hot,  and  the  child  would  evidently  have  thrown 
off  all  its  coverings  had  it  not  been  for  the  mother's  hand, 
which  lay  lightly  on  the  tiny  shoulder,  keeping  one  thin 
blanket  in  its  place. 

Catherine,"  he  whispered,  standing  beside  her. 
She  turned,  and  by  the  hght  of  the  candle  he  held  shaded 
from  her  he  saw  the  austere  remoteness  of  her  look,  as  of  one 
who  had  been  going  through  deep  waters  of  misery,  alone  with 
God.  His  heart  sunk.  For  the  first  time  that  look  seemed  to 
exclude  him  from  her  inmost  life. 

He  sunk  down  beside  her,  took  the  hand  lying  on  the  child, 
and  laid  down  his  head  upon  it,  mutely  kissing  it.  But  he  said 
nothing.  Of  what  further  avail  could  words  be  just  then  to 
either  of  them  ?  Only  he  felt  through  every  fiber  the  coldness, 
the  irresponsiveness  of  those  fingers  lying  in  his. 

Would  it  prevent  your  sleeping,"  he  asked  her  presently, 
if  I  came  to  read  here,  as  I  used  to  when  you  were  ill?  I 
could  shade  the  light  from  you,  of  course." 
She  raised  her  head  suddenly. 
"  But  you— you  ought  to  sleep." 
Her  tone  was  anxious,  but  strangely  quiet  and  aloof. 
Impossible  1"  he  said,  pressing  his  hand  over  his  eyes  as  he 
rose.    ' '  At  any  rate  I  will  read  first. " 

His  sleeplessness  at  any  time  of  excitement  or  strain  was  so 
inveterate,  and  so  familiar  to  them  both  by  now,  that  she  could 
say  nothing.  She  turned  away  with  a  long,  sobbing  breath, 
which  seemed  to  go  through  her  from  head  to  foot.  He  stood 
a  moment  beside  her,  fighting  strong  impulses  of  remorse  and 
passion,  and  ultimately  maintaining  silence  and  self-control. 

In  another  minute  or  two  he  was  sitting  beside  her  feet,  in  a 
low  chair  drawn  to  the  edge  of  the  bed,  the  light  arranged  so 


430 


ROBBET  ELSMEBE. 


as  to  reach  his  book  without  touching  either  mother  or  child. 
He  had  run  over  the  book-shelf  in  his  own  room,  shrinking 
painfully  from  any  of  his  common  religious  favorites  as  one 
shrinks  from  touching  a  still  sore  and  throbbing  nerve,  and 
had  at  last  carried  off  a  volume  of  Spenser. 

And  so  the  night  began  to  wear  away.  For  the  first  hour  or 
two,  every  now  and  then,  a  stifled  sob  would  make  itself  just 
faintly  heard.  It  was  a  sound  to  wring  the  heart,  for  what  it 
meant  was  that  not  even  Catherine  Elsmere's  extraordinary 
powers  of  self -suppression  could  avail  to  check  the  outward  ex- 
pression of  an  inward  torture.  Each  time  it  came  and  went,  it 
seemed  to  Elsmere  that  a  fraction  of  his  youth  went  with  it. 

At  last  exhaustion  brought  her  a  restless  sleep.  As  soon  as 
Elsmere  caught  the  light  breathing  which  told  him  she  was 
not  conscious  of  her  grief,  or  of  him,  his  book  sUpped  on  to  his 
knees. 

"  Open  the  temple  gates  unto  my  love. 

Open  them  wide  that  she  may  enter  in. 
And  all  the  posts  adorn  as  doth  behove. 

And  all  the  pillars  deck  with  garlands  trim. 
For  to  receive  this  saint  with  honor  due 
That  Cometh  in  to  you. 

With  trembling  steps  and  humble  reverence. 
She  Cometh  in  before  the  Almighty's  view. " 

Tlie  leaves  fell  over  as  the  book  dropped,  and  these  lines, 
which  had  been  to  him,  as  to  other  lovers,  the  utterance  of  his 
own  bridal  joy,  emerged.  They  brought  about  him  a  host  of 
images— a  little  gray  church  penetrated  everywhere  by  the 
roar  of  a  swollen  river;  outside,  a  road  filled  with  empty 
farmers'  carts,  and  shouting  children  carrying  branches  of 
mountain-ash— winding  on  and  up  into  the  heart  of  wild  hilte 
dyed  with  reddening  fern,  the  sun-gleams  stealing  from  crag 
to  crag  and  shoulder  to  shoulder;  inside,  row  after  row  of  in- 
tent faces,  all  turned  toward  the  central  passage,  and,  moving 
toward  him,  a  figure  **clad  all  in  white,  that  seems  a  virgin 
best,"  whose  every  step  brings  nearer  to  him  the  heaven  of  his 
heart's  desire.  Everything  is  plain  to  him— Mrs.  Thomburgh's 
round  cheeks  and  marvelous  curls  and  jubilant  airs,  Mrs.  Ley- 
burn's  mild  and  tearful  pleasure,  the  vicar's  soHd  satisfaction. 
With  what  confiding  joy  had  those  who  loved  her  given  her  to 
him  I  And  he  knows  well  that  out  of  all  griefs,  the  grief  he 


ROBERT  ELSMBRB. 


43X 


has  brought  upon  her  in  two  short  years  is  the  one  which  will 
seem  to  her  hardest  to  bear.  Very  few  women  of  the  present 
day  could  feel  this  particular  calamity  as  Catherine  Elsmere^ 
must  feel  it. 

Was  it  a  crime  to  love  and  win  you,  my  darling?"  he  crie# 
to  her  in  his  heart.  Ought  I  to  have  had  more  self-knowl- 
edge? could  I  have  guessed  where  I  was  taking  you?  Oh,  hovt 
could  I  know — ^how  could  I  know !" 

But  it  was  impossible  to  him  to  sink  himself  wholly  in  the 
past.  Inevitably  such  a  nature  as  Elsmere's  turns  very  quickly 
from  despair  to  hope;  from  the  sense  of  failure  to  the  passion- 
ate planning  of  new  effort.  In  time  will  he  hot  be  able  to  com- 
fort her,  and,  after  a  miserable  moment  of  transition,  to  repair 
her  trust  in  him  and  make  their  common  life  once  more  rich 
toward  God  and  man?  There  must  be  painful  readjustment 
and  friction,  no  doubt.  He  tries  to  see  the  facts  as  they  truly 
are,  fighting  against  his  own  optimist  tendencies,  and  realizing 
as  best  he  can  all  the  changes  which  his  great  change  must  in- 
troduce into  their  most  intimate  relations.  But  after  all,  can 
love  and  honesty  and  a  clear  conscience  do  nothing  to  bridge 
over,  nay,  to  efface,  such  differences  as  theirs  will  be? 

Oh,  to  bring  her  to  understand  him !  At  this  moment  he 
shrinks  painfully  from  the  thought  of  touching  her  faith— his 
own  sense  of  loss  is  too  heavy,  too  terrible.  But  if  she  will 
only  be  still  open  with  him! — still  give  him  her  d  ^epest  heart, 
any  las  :ing  difference  between  them  will  surely  be  impossible. 
Each  will  complete  the  other,  and  love  knit  up  the  raveled 
strands  again  into  a  stronger  unity. 

Gradually  he  lost  himself  in  half-articulate  prayer,  in  the 
solemn  girding  of  the  will  to  this  future  task  of  recreating 
love.  And  by  the  time  the  morning  light  had  well  established 
itself  sleep  had  fallen  on  him.  When  he  became  sensible  of  the 
longed-for  drowsiness,  he  merely  stretched  out  a  tired  hand 
and  drew  over  him  a  shawl  hanging  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  He 
was  too  utterly  worn  out  to  think  of  moving. 

When  he  Woke  the  sun  was  streaming  into  the  room,  and 
behind  him  sat  the  tiny  Mary  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  the 
rounded  apple  cheeks  and  wild-bird  eyes  aglow  with  mischief 
and  delight.  She  had  climbed  out  of  her  cot,  and,  finding  no 
check  to  her  progress,  had  crept  on,  till  now  she  sat  triinn- 
phantly,  with  one  diminutive  leg  and  rosy  foot  douMed  under 
her-  and  her  father's  thick  hair  at  the  mercy  of  he?  invading 


432 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


fingers,  which,  however,  were  as  yet  touching  him  half 
timidly,  as  though  something  in  his  sleep  had  awed  the  baby 
sense. 

But  Catherine  was  gone. 

He  sprung  up  with  a  start.  Mary  was  frightened  by  the 
abrupt  movement,  perhaps  disappointed  by  the  escape  of  her 
pi  ey,  and  raised  a  sudden  wail. 

He  carried  her  to  her  nurse,  even  forgetting  to  kiss  the  little 
wet  cheek,  ascertained  that  Catherine  was  not  in  the  house,  and 
then  came  back,  miserable,  wi  h  the  bewilderment  of  sleep  still 
upon  him.  A  sense  of  wrong  rose  high  within  him.  How 
could  she  have  left  him  thus  without  a  word  ? 

It  had  been  her  way,  sometimes,  during  the  summer,  to  go 
out  early  to  one  or  other  of  the  sick  folk  who  were  under  her 
especial  charge.  Possibly  she  had  gone  to  a  woman,  just  con- 
fined, on  the  further  side  of  the  village,  who  yesterday  had  been 
in  danger. 

But,  whatever  explanation  he  could  make  for  himself,  he  was 
none  the  less  irrationally  wretched.  He  bathed,  dressed,  and  sat 
down  to  his  solitary  meal  in  a  state  of  tension  and  agitation 
indescribable.  All  the  exaltation,  the  courage  of  the  night,  was 
gone. 

Nine  o'clock,  ten  o'clock,  and  no  sign  of  Catherine. 

*'Your  mistress  must  have  been  detained  sonjewhere,"  he 
said,  as  quietly  and  carelessly  as  he  could  to  Susan,  the  parlor- 
maid, who  had  been  with  them  since  their  marriage.  Leave 
breakfast  things  for  one." 

Mistress  took  a  cup  of  milk  when  she  went  out,  cook 
says,"  observed  the  little  maid,  with  a  consoling  intention, 
wondering  the  while  at  the  rector's  haggard  mien  and  restless 
movements. 

Nursing  other  people  indeed!"  she  observed,  severely, 
down-stairs,  glad  as  we  all  are  at  times  to  pick  holes  in  excel- 
lence which  is  inconveniently  high.  Missis  had  a  deal  better 
stay  at  home  and  nurse  Mm .'" 

The  day  was  excessively  hot.  Not  a  leaf  moved  in  the  gar- 
den: over  the  corn-field  the  air  danced  in  long  vibrations  of 
heat;  the  woods  and  hills  beyond  were  indistinct  and  colorless. 
Their  dog  Dandy  lay  sleeping  in  the  sun,  waking  up  every  now 
and  then  to  avenge  himself  on  the  flies.  On  the  far  edge  of  the 
corn-field  reaping  was  beginning.  Eobert  stood  on  the  edge  of 
the  sunk  fence,  his  blind  eyes  resting  on  the  line  of  men,  his 


m 


ear  catching  the  shouts  of  the  farmer  directing  operations  from 
his  gray  horse.  He  could  do  nothing.  The  night  before,  in  the 
wood-path,  he  had  clearly  mapped  out  the  day's  work.  A  mass 
of  business  was  waiting,  clamoring  to  be  done.  He  tried  to  be- 
p-in  on  this  or  that,  and  gave  up  everything  with  a  groan,  wan- 
dering out  again  to  the  gate  on  to  the  wood-path  to  sweep  the 
distances  of  road  or  field  with  hungry,  straining  eyes. 

The  wildest  fears  had  taken  possession  of  him.  Kunning  m 
bis  head  was  a  passage  from  '^The  Confessions,"  describing 
Monica's  horror  of  her  son's  heretical  opinions.  *'Shrinkmg 
from  and  detesting  the  blasphemies  of  his  error,  she  began  to 
doubt  whether  it  was  right  in  her  to  allow  her  son  to  Mve  in  her 
house  and  to  eat  at  the  same  table  with  her ;"  and  the  mother's 
heart,  he  remembered,  could  only  be  convinced  of  the  lawful- 
ness of  its  own  yearning  by  a  prophetic  vision  of  the  youth's 
conversion.  He  recalled,  with  a  shiver,  how  in  the  life  of  Mme. 
Guyon,  after  describing  the  painful  and  agonizing  death  of  a 
kind  but  comparatively  irrehgious  husband,  she  quietly  adds: 

As  soon  as  I  heard  that  my  husband  had  just  expired,  I  said 
to  Thee,  O  my  God,  Thou  hast  broken  my  bonds,  and  I  will 
offer  to  Thee  a  sacrifice  of  praise  !"  He  thought  of  John  Henry 
Newman,  disowning  all  the  ties  of  kinship  with  his  younger 
brother  because  of  divergent  views  on  the  question  of  baptismal 
regeneration ;  of  the  long  tragedy  of  Blanco  White's  life,  caused 
by  the  slow  dropping-off  of  friend  after  friend,  on  the  groimd 
of  heretical  belief.  What  right  had  he,  or  any  one  in  such  a 
strait  as  his,  to  assume  that  the  faith  of  the  present  is  no 
longer  capable  of  the  same  stern,  self -destructive  consistency  as 
the  faith  of  the  past  ?  He  knew  that  to  such  Christian  purity, 
such  Christian  inwardness  as  Catherine's,  the  ultimate  sanction 
and  legitimacy  of  marriage  rest,  both  in  theory  and  practice,  on 
a  common  acceptance  of  the  definite  commands  and  promises  oi 
a  miraculous  revelation.  He  had  had  a  proof  of  it  in  Cath- 
erine's  passionate  repugnance  to  the  idea  of  Eose's  marriage 
with  Edward  Langham. 

Eleven  o'clock  striking  from  the  distant  tower.  He  walked 
desperately  along  the  wood-path,  meaning  to  go  through  the 
copse  at  the  end  of  it  toward  the  park,  and  look  there.  He  had 
just  passed  into  the  copse,  a  thick,  interwoven  mass  of  young 
trees,  when  he  heard  the  sound  of  the  gate  which  on  the  further 
side  of  it  lead  on  to  the  road.  He  hurried  on ;  the  trees  closed 
behind  him;  the  grassy  path  broadened;  and  there,  under  an 


434 


ROBERT  ELSMERE, 


arch  of  young  oak  and  hazel,  stood  Catherine,  arrested  hy  the 
sound  of  his  step.  He,  too,  stopped  at  the  sight  of  her;  he 
could  not  go  on.  Husband  and  wife  looked  at  each  other  one 
long,  quivering  moment.  Then  Gathering  spnmg  forward 
with  a  sob  and  threw  herself  on  his  breast. 

They  clung  to  each  other,  she  in  a  passion  of  tears— tears  of 
such  self-ahandonment  as  neither  Eobert  nor  any  other  hving 
soul  had  ever  seen  Catherine  Elsmere  shed  before.  As  for  him, 
he  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  his  arms  scarcely  strong 
enough  to  hold  her,  his  young,  worn  face  bent  down  over  her. 

''Oh,  Robert  1"  she  sobbed  at  last,  putting  up  her  hand  and 
touching  his  hair,  ''you  look  so  pale,  so  sad." 

"I  have  you  again!"  he  said,  simply. 

A  thrill  of  remorse  ran  through  her. 

"I  went  away,"  she  murmured,  her  face  still  hidden— "I 
went  away,  because  when  I  woke  up  it  all  seemed  to  me,  sud- 
denly, too  ghastly  to  be  beheved;  I  could  not  stay  still  and 
bear  it.  But,  Robert,  Robert,  I  kissed  you  as  I  passed !  I  was 
so  thankful  you  could  sleep  a  little  and  forget.  I  hardly  know 
where  I  have  been  most  of  the  time— I  think  I  have  been  sit- 
ting in  a  comer  of  the  park,  where  no  one  ever  comes.  I  be- 
gan to  think  of  all  you  said  to  me  last  night— to  put  it  together 
—to  try  and  understand  it,  and  it  seemed  to  me  more  and  more 
horrible !  I  thought  of  what  it  would  be  hke  to  have  to  hide 
my  prayers  from  you— my  faith  in  Christ— my  hope  of  heaven. 
I  thought  of  bringing  up  the  child— how  all  that  was  vital  to 
me  would  be  a  superstition  to  you,  which  you  would  bear  with 
for  my  sake.  I  thought  of  death,"  and  she  shuddered—"  your 
death,  or  my  death,  and  how  this  change  in  you  would  cleave 
a  gulf  of  misery  between  us.  And  then  I  thought  of  losing  my 
own  faith,  of  denying  Christ.  It  was  a  nightmare — I  saw  my- 
self on  a  long  road,  escaping  with  Mary  in  my  arms,  escaping 
from  you!  Oh,  Robert!  it  wasn't  only  for  myself  "—and  she 
clung  to  him  as  though  she  were  a  child,  confessing,  explaining 
away,  some  grievous  fault  hardly  to  be  forgiven.  "I  was 
agonized  by  the  thought  that  I  was  not  my  own— I  and  my 
child  were  Chrisfs.  Could  I  risk  what  was  His?  Other  men 
and  women  had  died,  had  given  up  all  for  His  sake.  Is  there 
no  one  now  strong  enough  to  suffer  torment,  to  kill  even  love 
itself  rather  than  deny  Him— rather  than  crucify  Him  afresh?" 

She  paused,  struggling  for  breath.   The  terrible  excitement 


BOBEET  EtSMEBE. 


435 


of  that  by-gone  moment  had  seized  upon  her  again  and  com- 
municated itself  to  him. 

^'And  then— and  then,"  she  said,  sobbing,  ''I  don't  know 
how  it  was.  One  moment  I  was  sitting  up  looking  straight  be- 
fore me,  without  a  tear,  thinking  of  what  was  the  least  I  must 
do,  even — even— if  you  and  I  stayed  together— of  all  the  hard 
compacts  and  conditions  I  must  make— judging  you  all  the 
while  from  a  long,  long  distance,  and  feeling  as  though  I  had 
buried  the  old  self— sacrificed  the  old  heart— forever !  And  the 
next  I  was  lying  on  the  ground  crying  for  you,  Eobert,  crying 
for  you !  Your  face  had  come  back  to  me  as  you  lay  there  in 
the  early  morning  light.  I  thought  how  I  had  kissed  you— 
how  pale  and  gray  and  thin  you  looked.  Oh,  how  I  loathed 
myself!  That  I  should  think  it  could  be  God's  will  that  I 
should  leave  you,  or  torture  you,  my  poor  husband !  I  had  not 
only  been  wicked  toward  you— I  had  offended  Christ.  I  could 
think  of  nothing  as  I  lay  there— again  and  again— but  *  Little 
children,  love  one  another;  little  children,  love  one  another,' 
Oh,  my  beloved"— and  she  looked  up  with  the  solemnest,  ten- 
derest  smile  breaking  on  the  marred,  tear-stained  face— I  will 
never  give  up  hope,  I  will  pray  for  you  night  and  day.  God 
will  bring  you  back.  You  can  not  lose  yourself  so.  No,  no! 
His  grace  is  stronger  than  our  wills.  But  I  will  not  preach  to 
you— I  will  not  persecute  you— I  will  only  Hve  beside  you— in 
your  heart—  and  love  you  always.  Oh,  how  could  I— ho w  could 
I  have  such  thoughts !" 

And  again  she  broke  off,  weeping,  as  if  to  the  tender,  torn  ' 
heart  the  only  crime  that  could  not  be  forgiven  was  its  own 
offense  against  love.   As  for  him,  he  was  beyond  speech.  If 
he  had  ever  lost  his  vision  of  God  his  wife's  love  would  that 
moment  hav^  given  it  back  to  him. 

''Eobert,"  she  said  presently,  urged  on  by  the  sacred  yearn- 
ing to  heal,  to  atone,  ''I  will  not  complain— I  will  not  ask  you 
to  wait.  I  take  your  word  for  it  that  it  is  best  not,  that  it 
would  do  no  good.  The  only  hope  is  in  time— and  prayer.  I 
must  suffer,  dear,  I  must  be  weak  sometimes;  but  oh,  I  am  so 
sorry  for  you!  Kiss  me,  forgive  me,  Eobert;  I  will  be  your 
faithful  wife  unto  our  liv»es' end." 

He  kissed  her,  and  in  that  kiss,  so  sad,  so  pitiful,  so  clinging, 
their  new  life  was  bom. 


CHAPTEK  XXX. 

But  the  problem  of  these  two  lives  was  not  solved  by  a  bnrst 
of  feeling.  Without  that  determining  impulse  of  love  and  pity 
in  Catherine's  heart  the  salvation  of  an  exquisite  bond  might 
indeed  have  been  impossible.  But  in  spite  of  it  the  laws  of 
character  had  still  to  work  themselves  inexorably  out  on  either 
side. 

The  whole  gist  of  the  matter  for  Elsmere  lay  really  in  this 
question :  Hidden  in  Catherine's  nature,  was  there,  or  was  there 
not,  the  true  stuff  of  fanaticism?  Mme.  Guy  on  left  her  infant 
children  to  the  mercies  of  chance,  while  she  followed  the  voice 
of  God  to  the  holy  war  with  heresy.  Under  similar  conditions 
Catherine  Elsmere  might  have  planned  the  same.  Could  she 
ever  have  carried  it  out? 

And  yet  the  question  is  still  ill  stated.  For  the  influences  of 
our  modern  time  on  religious  action  are  so  blimting  and  dull- 
ing, because  in  truth  the  religious  motive  itself  is  being  con- 
stantly modified,  whether  the  religious  person  knows  it  or  not. 
Is  it  possible  now  for  a  good  woman  with  a  heart,  in  Catherine 
Elsmere's  position,  to  maintain  herself  against  love,  and  all 
those  subtle  forces  to  which  such  a  change  as  Elsmere's  opens 
the  house  doors,  without  either  hardening,  or  greatly  yielding? 
Let  Catherine's  further  story  give  some  sort  of  an  answer. 

Poor  soul !  As  they  sat  together  in  the  study,  after  he  had 
brought  her  home,  Kobert,  with  averted  eyes,  went  through  the 
plans  he  had  already  thought  into  shape.  Catherine  listened, 
saying  almost  nothing.  But  never,  never  had  she  loved  this 
life  of  theirs  so  well  as  now  that  she  was  called  on,  at  barely  a 
week's  notice,  to  give  it  up  forever!  For  Eobert's  scheme,  in 
which  her  reason  fully  acquiesced,  was  to  keep  to  their  plan  of 
going  to  Switzerland,  he  having  first,  of  course,  settled  all 
things  with  the  bishop,  and  having  placed  his  living  in  the 
hands  of  Mowbray  Elsmere.  When  they  left  the  rectory,  in  a 
week  or  ten  days'  time,  he  proposed,  in  fact,  his  voice  almost 
inaudible  as  he  did  so,  that  Catherine  should  leave  it  for  good. 

Everybody  had  better  suppose,"  he  said,  choking,  *Hhat 
we  are  coming  back.  Of  course  we  need  say  nothing.  Armit- 
stead  will  be  here  for  next  week  certainly.  Then  afterward  I 
can  come  down  and  manage  eveiything.  I  shall  get  it  over  in 
a  day  if  I  can,  and  see  nobody.  I  can  not  say  good-bye,  nor 
can  you." 


ROBERT  ELSMBRE. 


437 


And  next  Sunday,  Kobert?"  she  asked  him,  after  a  pause. 

I  shall  write  to  Armitstead  this  afternoon,  and  ask  him,  if 
he  possibly  can,  to  come  to-morrow  afternoon,  instead  of  Mon- 
day, and  take  the  service." 

Catherine's  hands  clasped  each  other  still  more  closely.  So 
then  she  had  heard  her  husband's  voice  for  the  last  time  in  the 
public  ministry  of  the  Church,  in  prayer,  in  exhortation,  in 
benediction !  One  of  the  most  sacred  traditions  of  her  life  was 
struck  from  her  at  a  blow. 

It  was  long  before  either  of  them  spoke  again.  Then  she 
ventured  another  question. 

And  have  you  any  idea  of  what  we  shall  do  next,  Eobert— 
of— of  our  future?" 

Shall  we  try  London  for  a  little?"  he  answered,  in  a  queer, 
strained  voice,  leaning  against  the  window,  and  looking  out, 
that  he  might  not  see  her.  should  find  work  among  the 
poor— so  would  you— and  I  could  go  on  with  my  book.  And 
your  mother  and  sister  will  probably  be  there  part  of  the  win- 
ter." ^ 

She  acquiesced  silently.  How  mean  and  shrunken  a  future 
it  seemed  to  them  both,  beside  the  wide  and  honorable  range 
of  his  clergyman's  life  as  he  and  she  had  developed  it.  But  she 
did  not  dwell  long  on  that.  Her  thoughts  were  suddenly  in- 
vaded by  the  memory  of  a  cottage  tragedy  in  which  she  had 
recently  taken  a  prominent  part.  A  girl,  a  child  of  fifteen, 
from  one  of  the  crowded  Mil^*End  hovels,  had  gone  at  Christ- 
mas to  a  distant  farm  as  servant,  and  come  back  a  month  ago, 
ruined,  the  victim  of  an  outrage  over  which  Elsmere  had 
ground  his  teeth  in  fierce  and  helpless  anger.  Catherine  had 
found  her  a  shelter,  and  was  to  see  her  through  her  trouble;" 
the  girl,  a  frail,  half-witted  creature,  who  could  find  no  words 
even  to  bewail  herself,  clinging  to  her  the  while  with  the 
dumbest,  pitifulest  tenacity. 

How  could  she  leave  that  girl?  It  was  as  if  all  the  fibers  of 
life  were  being  violently  wrenched  from  all  their  natural  con- 
nections. 

Eobert!"  she  cried  at  last,  with  a  start.  "Had  you  for- 
gotten the  institute  to-morrow?" 

jJo— no,"  he  said,  with  the  saddest  smile.  No,  I  had  not 
forgotten  it.  Don't  go,  Catherine—don't  go.  I  must.  But 
why  should  you  go  through  it?" 

*'But  there  are  aU  those  flags  and  wreaths,"  she  said,  get- 


438 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


ting  up  in  pained  bewilderment.      I  must  go  and  look  after 
them." 
He  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

'*0h,  my  wife,  my  wife,  forgive  me!"  It  was  a  groan  of 
misery.  She  put  up  her  hands  and  pressed  his  hair  back  from 
his  temples. 

''I love  you,  Eobert,"  she  said,  simply,  her  face  colorless 
but  perfectly  calm. 

Half  an  hour  later,  after  he  had  worked  through  some  let- 
ters, he  went  into  the  work-room  and  found  her  surrounded 
with  flags,  and  a  vast  litter  of  paper  roses  and  evergreens, 
which  she  and  the  new  agent's  daughters  who  had  come  up  to 
help  her  were  putting  together  for  the  decorations  of  the  mor- 
row. Mary  was  tottering  from  chair  to  chair  in  high  glee,  a 
big  pink  rose  stuck  in  the  belt  of  her  pinafore.  His  pale  wife, 
trying  to  smile  and  talk  as  usual,  her  lap  full  of  evergreens, 
and  her  politeness  exercised  by  the  chatter  of  the  two  Miss 
Batesons,  seemed  to  Robert  one  of  tfie  most  pitiful  spectacles 
he  had  ever  seen.  He  fled  from  it  out  into  the  village,  driven 
by  a  restless  longing  for  change  and  movement. 

Here  he  found  a  large  gathering  round  the  new  institute. 
There  were  carpenters  at  work  on  a  triumphal  arch  in  front, 
and  close  by,  an  admiring  circle  of  children  and  old  men, 
huddling  in  the  shade  of  a  great  chestnut.  " 

Elsmere  spent  an  hour  in  the  building,  helping  and  super- 
intending, stabbed  every  now  and  then  by  the  unsuspecting 
friendhness  of  those  about  him,  or  worried  by  their  blunt  com- 
ments on  his  looks.  He  could  not  bear  more  than  a  glance 
into  the  new  rooms  apportioned  to  the  NaturaUsts'  Club. 
There  against  the  wall  stood  the  new  glass  case  he  had  wrung 
out  of  the  squire,  with  various  new  collections  lying  near,  ready 
to  be  arranged  and  unpacked  when  time  allowed.  The  old  col- 
lections stood  out  bravely  in  the  added  space  and  light;  the 
walls  were  hung  here  and  there  with  a  wonderful  set  of  geo- 
graphical pictures  he  had  carried  off  from  a  London  exhibition 
and  fed  his  boys  on  for  weeks;  the  floors  were  freshly  matted; 
the  new  pine  fittings  gave  out  their  pleasant  cleanly  scent;  the 
white  paint  of  doors  and  windows  shone  in  the  August  sun. 
The  building  had  been  given  by  the  squire.  The  fittings  and 
furniture  had  been  mainly  of  his  providing.  What  uses  he  had 
planned  for  it  all !— only  to  see  the  fruits  of  two  years'  effort 
out-of-doors,  and  personal  frugaUty  at  home,  handed  over  to 


ROBEBT  ELSMERE. 


439 


Bome  possibly  unsympathetic  stranger.  The  heart  beat  pain- 
fully against  the  iron  bars  of  fate,  rebelHng  against  the  power 
of  a  mental  process  so  to  aifect  a  man's  whole  practical  and 
social  life. 

He  went  out  at  last  by  the  back  of  the  institute,  where  a 
httle  bit  of  garden,  spoiled  with  building  materials,  led  down 
to  a  lane. 

At  the  end  of  Jhe  garden,  beside  the  untidy  gap  in  the  hedge 
made  by  the  builders'  carts,  he  saw  a  man  standing,  who 
turned  away  down  the  lane,  however,  as  soon  as  the  rector's 
figure  emerged  into  view. 

Kobert  had  recognized  the  slouching  gait  and  unwieldy  form 
of  Henslowe.  There  were  at  this  moment  all  kinds  of  grew- 
some  stories  afloat  in  the  village  about  the  ex-agent.  It  was 
said  that  he  was  breaking  up  fast;  it  was  known  that  he  was 
extensively  in  debt;  and  the  village  shop-keepers  had  already 
held  an  agitated  meeting  or  two,  to  decide  upon  the  best  mode 
of  getting  their  money  out  of  him,  and  upon  a  joint  plan  of 
cautious  action  toward  his  custom  in  future.  The  man,  in- 
deed, was  sinking  deeper  and  deeper  into  a  pit  of  sordid  misery, 
maintaining  all  the  while  a  snarling,  exasperating  front  to  the 
world,  which  was  rapidly  converting  the  careless,  half -malicious 
pity  wherewith  the  village  had  till  now  surveyed  his  fall  into 
that  more  active  species  of  baiting  which  the  human  animal  is 
never  very  loath  to  try  upon  the  limping  specimens  of  his 
race. 

Henslowe  stopped  and  turned  as  he  heard  the  steps  behind 
him.  Six  months'  self -murdering  had  left  ghastly  traces.  He 
was  many  degrees  nearer  the  brute  than  he  had  been  even  when 
Eobert  made  his  ineffectual  visit.  But  at  this  actual  moment 
Robert's  practiced  eye— for  every  EngUsh  parish  clergyman 
becomes  dismally  expert  in  the  pathology  of  drunkenness— saw 
that  there  was  no  fight  in  him.  He  was  in  one  of  the  drunk- 
ard's periods  of  collapse— shivering,  flabby,  starting  at  every 
sound,  a  misery  to  himself  and  a  spectacle  to  others. 

*'Mr.  Henslowe  I"  cried  Eobert,  still  pursuing  him,  *'may 
I  speak  to  you  a  moment?" 

The  ex-agent  turned,  his  prominent  bloodshot  eyes  glowering 
at  the  speaker.  But  he  had  to  catch  at  his  stick  for  support, 
or  at  the  nervous  shock  of  Robert's  summons  his  legs  would 
have  given  way  under  him. 

Robert  came  up  with  him  and  stood  a  second,  fronting  the 


440 


EGBERT  ELSMERE. 


evU  silence  of  the  other,  his  boyish  face  deeply  flushed.  Per 
haps  the  grotesqueness  of  that  former  scene  was  in  his  mind. 
Moreover,  the  vestry  meetings  had  furnished  Henslowe  with 
periodical  opportunities  for  venting  his  gall  on  the  rector,  and 
they  had  never  been  neglected.   But  he  plunged  on,  boldly. 

**Iam  going  away  next  week,  Mr.  Henslowe;  I  shall  be 
away  some  considerable  time.  Before  I  go  I  should  like  to  ask 
you  whether  you  do  not  think  the  feud  between  us  had  better 
cease.  Why  will  you  i)ersist  in  making  an  enemy  of  me?  If 
I  did  you  an  injiu'y  it  was  neither  wittingly  nor  willingly.  I 
know  you  have  been  ill,  and  I  gather  that— that— you  are  in 
trouble.  If  I  could  stand  between  you  and  further  mischief  I 
would — most  gladly.  If  help — or— or  money — "  He  paused. 
He  shrewdly  suspected,  indeed,  from  the  reports  that  reached 
him,  that  Henslowe  was  on  the  brink  of  bankruptcy. 

The  rector  had  spoken  with  the  utmost  diffidence  and  deli- 
cacy, but  Henslowe  found  energy  in  return  for  an  outburst  ol 
quavering  animosity,  from  which,  however,  physical  weaknesa 
had  extracted  aU  its  sting. 

I'U  thank  you  to  make  your  canting  offers  to  some  one 
else,  Mr.  Elsmere.  When  I  'want  your  advice  I'U  ask  it. 
Good-day  to  you."  And  he  turned  away  with  as  much  of  an 
attempt  at  dignity  as  his  shaking  limbs  would  allow  of. 

Listen,  Mr.  Henslowe,"  said  Robert,  firmly,  walking  beside 
him;  *'you  know — I  know— that  if  this  [goes  on,  in  a  year's 
time  you  will  be  in  your  grave,  and  your  poor  wife  and  chil- 
dren strugghng  to  keep  themselves  from  the  work-house.  You 
may  think  that  I  have  no  right  to  preach  to  you — that  you  are 
the  older  man — that  it  is  an  intrusion.  But  what  is  the  good 
of  blinking  facts  that  you  must  know  all  the  world  knows? 
Come,  now,  Mr.  Henslowe,  let  us  behave  for  a  moment  as 
though  this  were  our  last  meeting.  Who  knows?  the  chances 
of  life  are  many.  Lay  down  your  grudge  against  me,  and  lc= 
me  speak  to  you  as  one  strugghng  human  being  to  another. 
The  fact  that  you  have,  as  you  say,  become  less  prosperous,  in 
some  sort  through  me,  seems  to  give  me  a  right— to  make  it  a 
duty  for  me,  if  you  will — to  help  you  if  I  can.  Let  me  send  a 
good  doctor  to  see  you.  Let  me  implore  you  as  a  last  chance 
to  put  yourself  into  his  hands,  and  to  obey  him,  and  your  wife; 
and  let  me"— the  rector  hesitated — *'  let  me  make  things  pecu- 
niarily easier  for  Mrs.  Henslowe  till  you  have  pulled  yourself 


BOBEBT  ELSMEBS. 


441 


out  of  the  hole  in  which,  by  common  report  at  least,  you  are 
now.'' 

Henslowe  stared  at  him,  divided  between  anger  caused  by 
the  sore  stirring  of  his  old  self-importance,  and  a  tumultuous 
flood  of  self-pity,  roused  irresistibly  in  him  by  Eobert's  piercing 
frankness,  and  aided  by  his  own  more  or  less  maudHn  condi- 
tion. The  latter  sensation  quickly  undermined  the  former;  he 
turned  his  back  on  the  rector  and  leaned  over  the  railings  of 
the  lane,  shaken  by  something  it  is  hardly  worth  while  to  dig- 
nify by  the  name  of  emotion.  Robert  stood  by,  a  pale  embodi- 
ment of  mingled  judgment  and  compassion.  He  gave  the  man 
a  few  moments  to  recover  himself,  and  then,  as  Henslowe 
turned  round  again,  he  silently  and  appealingly  held  out  his 
hand—the  hand  of  the  good  man,  which  it  was  an  honor  for 
such  as  Henslowe  to  touch.  Constrained  by  the  moral  force 
radiating  from  his  look,  the  other  took  it  with  a  kind  of  help- 
less sullenness. 

Then,  seizing  at  once  on  the  slight  concession,  with  that 
complete  lack  of  inconvenient  self -consciousness,  or  hindering 
indecision,  which  was  one  of  the  chief  causes  of  his  effect  on 
men  and  women,  Robert  began  to  soimd  the  broken,  repulsive 
creature  as  to  his  affairs.  Bit  by  bit,  compelled  by  a  will  and 
nervous  strength  far  superior  to  his  own,  Henslowe  was  led 
into  abrupt  and  blurted  confidences  which  surprised  no  one  so 
much  as  himself.  Robert's  quick  sense  possessed  itself  of  point 
after  point,  seeing  presently  ways  of  escape  and  relief  which 
the  besotted  brain  beside  him  had  been  quite  incapable  of  de 
vising  for  itself.  They  walked  on  into  the  open  country,  and 
what  with  the  discipline  of  the  rector's  presence,  the  sobering 
effect  wrought  by  the  shock  to  pride  and  habit,  and  the  un- 
wonted brain  exercise  of  the  conversation,  the  demon  in  Hens- 
lowe had  been  for  the  moment  most  strangely  tamed  after  half 
an  hour's  talk.  Actually  some  reminiscences  of  his  old  ways 
of  speech  and  thought,  the  ways  of  the  once  prosperous  and 
self-reliant  man  of  business,  had  reappeared  in  him  before  the 
end  of  it,  called  out  by  the  subtle  influence  of  a  manner  which 
always  attracted  to  the  surface  whatever  decent  element  there 
might  be  left  in  a  man,  and  then  instantly  gave  it  a  recognition 
which  was  more  redeeming  than  either  counsel  or  denunciation. 

By  the  time  they  parted  Robert  had  arranged  with  his  old 
enemy  that  he  should  become  his  surety  with  a  rich  cousin  in 
Churton,  who,  always  supposing  there  was  no  risk  in  the 


1 


442  BOBEBT  ELgMEBE. 

matter,  and  that  benevolence  ran  on  all-fours  with  security  of 
investment,  was  prepared  to  shield  the  credit  of  the  family  by 
the  advance  of  a  sufficient  sum  of  money  to  rescue  the  ex-agent 
from  his  most  pressing  difficulties.  He  had  also  wrung  from 
him  the  promise  to  see  a  specialist  in  London— Robert  writing 
that  evening  to  make  the  appointment. 

How  had  it  been  done?  Neither  Robert  nor  Henslowe  ever 
quite  knew.  Henslowe  walked  home  in  a  bewildtjrment  which 
for  once  had  nothing  to  do  with  brandy,  but  was  simply  th^ 
result  of  a  moral  shock  acting  on  what  was  still  human  in  thG 
man's  debased  consciousness,  just  as  electricity  acts  on  the 
bodily  frame. 

Robert,  on  the  other  hand,  saw  him  depart  with  a  singular 
lightening  of  mood.  What  he  seemed  to  have  achieved  might 
turn  out  to  be  the  merest  moonshine.  At  any  rate,  the  iiiCi 
dent  had  appeased  in  him  a  kind  of  spiritual  hunger —tlie 
hunger  to  escape  awhile  from  that  incessant  process  oi:  de- 
structive analysis  with  which  the  mind  was  still  beset,  into 
some  use  of  energy,  more  positive,  human,  and  beneficent. 

The  following  day  was  one  long  trial  of  endurance  for  Els 
mere  and  for  Catherine.  She  pleaded  to  go,  promising  quietly 
to  keep  out  of  his  sight,  and  they  started  together — a  misera- 
ble pair. 

Crowds,  heat,  decorations,  the  grandees  on  the  platform, 
and  conspicuous  among  them  the  squire's  slouching  frame  and 
striking  head,  side  by  side  with  a  white  and  radiant  Lady 
Helen— the  outer  success,  the  inner  revolt  and  pain— and  the 
constant  seeking  of  his  truant  eyes  for  a  face  that  hid  itself 
much  as  possible  in  dark  comers,  but  was  in  truth  the  one 
thing  sharply  present  to  him— these  \^ere  the  sort  of  impres- 
sions that  remained  with  Elsmere  afterward  of  this  last  meet- 
ing with  his  people. 

He  had  made  a  speech,  of  which  he  never  could  remember  a 
word.  As  he  sat  down  there  had  been  a  sHght  flutter  of  sur- 
prise in  the  sympathetic  looks  of  those  about  him,  as  though 
the  tone  of  it  had  been  somewhat  unexpected  and  dispropor- 
tionate to  the  occasion.  Had  he  betrayed  himself  in  any  way? 
He  looked  for  Catherine,  but  she  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 
Only  in  his  search  he  caught  the  squire's  ironical  glance,  and 
wondered  with  quick  shame  what  sort  of  nonsense  he  had  been 
talking. 

Then  a  neighboring  clergyman,  who  had  been  hia  warm  sup- 


4 


bObeet  blsmbrb. 


443 


porter  and  admirer  from  the  beginning,  sprung  up  and  made  a 
rambling  panegyric  on  him  and  on  his  work,  which  Elsmere 
w  rithed  under.  His  work !  absurdity !  What  could  be  done  in 
two  years?  He  saw  it  all  as  the  merest  nothing,  a  ragged  be- 
ginning which  might  do  more  harm  than  good. 

But  the  cheering  was  incessant,  the  popular  feeling  intense. 
There  was  old  Milsom  waving  a  feeble  armi^John  Allwood 
gaunt,  but  radiant;  Mary  Sharland,  white  still  as  the  ribbons 
on  her  bonnet,  egging  on  her  flushed  and  cheering  husband; 
and  the  club  boys  grinning  and  shouting,  partly  for  love  of 
Elsmere,  most  because  to  the  young  human  animal  mere  noise 
is  heaven.  In  front  was  an  old  hedger  and  ditcher,  who  came 
round  the  parish  periodically,  and  never  failed  to  take  Els- 
mere's  opinion  as  to  '*a  bit  of  prapperty"he  and  two  other 
brothers  as  ancient  as  himself  had  been  quarreling  over  for 
twenty  years,  and  were  likely  to  go  on  quarreling  over  till  aU 
three  litigants  had  closed  their  eyes  on  a  mortal  scene  which 
had  afforded  them  on  the  whole  vast  entertainment,  though 
little  pelf.  Next  him  was  a  bowed  and  twisted  old  tramp,  who 
had  been  shepherd  in  the  district  in  his  youth,  had  then  goiie 
through  the  Crimea  and  the  Mutiny,  and  was  now  living  about 
the  commons,  welcome  to  feed  here  and  sleep  there  for  the 
sake  of  his  stories  and  his  queer  innocuous  wit.  Robert  had 
had  many  a  gay  argumentative  talk  with  him,  and  he  and  his 
companion  had  tramped  miles  to  see  the  function,  to  rattle 
their  sticks  on  the  floor  in  Elsmere's  honor,  and  satiate  their 
curious  gaze  on  the  squire. 

When  all  was  over,  Elsmere,  with  his  wife  on  his  arm, 
mounted  the  hill  to  the  rectory,  leaving  the  green  behind  them 
still  crowded  with  folk.  Once  inside  the  shelter  of  their  own 
trees,  husband  and  wife  turned  instinctively  and  caught  each 
other's  hands.  A  low  groan  broke  from  Elsmere's  hps ;  Cath- 
erine looked  at  him  one  moment,  then  fell  weeping  on  his 
breast.    The  first  chapter  of  their  common  life  was  closed. 

One  thing  more,  however,  of  a  private  nature,  remained  for 
Elsmere  to  do.  Late  in  the  afternoon  he  walked  over  to  the 
Hall. 

He  found  the  squire  in  the  inner  library,  among  his  German 
books,  his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  his  old  smoking-coat  and  slippers 
bearing  witness  to  the  rapidity  and  joy  with  which  he  had  shut 
the  world  out  again  after  the  futilities  of  the  morning.  His 


444 


ROBERT  ELSMEBE. 


mood  was  more  accessible  than  Elsmere  had  yet  found  it  since 
his  return. 

Well,  have  you  done  with  all  those  tomfooleries,  Elsmere? 
Precious  eloquent  speech  you  made  I  When  I  see  you  and 
people  like  you  throwing  yourselves  at  the  heads  of  the  people, 
I  always  think  of  Scaliger's  remark  about  the  Basques:  *  They 
say  they  understand  one  another— J  don^t  believe  a  loord  of  it  P 
All  that  the  lower  class  wants  to  understand,  at  any  rate,  is 
the  shortest  way  to  the  pockets  of  you  and  me ;  all  that  you 
and  I  need  understand,  according  to  me,  is  how  to  keep  'em 
off  !  There  you  have  the  sum  and  substance  of  my  political 
philosophy." 

You  remind  me,"  said  Robert,  dryly,  sitting  down  on  one 
of  the  library  stools,  *'of  some  of  those  sentiments  you  ex- 
pressed so  forcibly  on  the  first  evening  of  our  acquaintance." 

The  squire  received  the  shaft  with  equanimity. 
I  was  not  amiable,  I  remember,  on  that  occasion,"  he  said, 
coolly,  his  thin,  old  man's  fingers  moving  the  while  among  the 
shelves  of  books,  nor  on  several  subsequent  ones.  I  had  been 
made  a  fool  of,  and  you  were  not  particularly  adroit.  But  of 
course  you  won't  acknowledge  it.  Who  ever  yet  got  a  parson 
to  confess  himself  !" 

*^  Strangely  enough,  Mr.  Wendover,"  said  Robert,  fixing 
him  with  a  pair  of  deliberate  feverish  eyes, "I  am  here  at  this 
moment  for  that  very  purpose." 

Go  on,"  said  the  squire,turning,  however,  to  meet  the  rec- 
tor's look,  his  gold  spectacles  falhng  forward  over  his  long 
hooked  nose,  his  attitude  one  of  sudden  attention.      Go  on." 

All  his  grievances  against  Elsmere  returned  to  him.  He  stood 
aggressively  waiting. 

Robert  paused  a  moment,  and  then  said  abruptly: 
Perhaps  even  you  will  agree,  Mr.  Wendover,  that  I  had 
some  reason  for  sentiment  this  morning.   Unless  I  read  the 
lessons  to-morrow,  which  is  possible,  to-day  has  been  my  last 
public  appearance  as  rector  of  this  parish!" 

The  squire  looked  at  him  dumbfounded. 
And  your  reasons?"  he  said,  with  quick  imperativeness. 

Robert  gave  them.  He  admitted,  as  plainly  and  bluntly  as 
he  had  done  to  Grey,  the  squire's  own  part  in  the  matter;  but 
here  a  note  of  antagonism,  almost  of  defiance,  crept  even  into 
his  confession  of  wide  and  illimitable  defeat.  Be  was  there,  so 


445 


to  speak,  to  hand  over  his  sword.  But  to  the  squire^  his  sur- 
render had  all  the  pride  of  victory. 

Why  should  you  give  up  your  living?"  asked  the  squire, 
after  several  minutes'  complete  silence. 

He,  too,  had  sat  down,  and  was  now  hending  forward,  his 
sharp  small  eyes  peering  at  his  companion. 

* '  Simply  because  I  prefer  to  feel  myself  an  honest  man.  How- 
ever, I  have  not  acted  without  advice.  Grey  of  St.  Anselm's— 
you  know  him,  of  course — was  a  very  close  personal  friend  of 
mine  at  Oxford.  I  have  been  to  see  him,  and  we  agreed  it  was 
the  only  tbing  to  do." 

Oh,  Grey,"  exclaimed  the  squire,  with  a  movement  of  im- 
patience. Grey  of  course  wanted  you  to  set  up  a  church  of 
your  own,  or  to  join  hia!  He  is  like  all  idealists,  he  has  the 
usual  foolish  contempt  for  the  compromise  of  institutions." 

**Notatall,"  said  Robert,  calmly,  ^*you  are  mistaken;  he 
has  the  most  sacred  respect  for  institutions.  He  only  thinks  it 
well,  and  I  agree  with  him,  that  with  regard  to  a  man's  public 
profession  and  practice  he  should  recognize  that  two  and  two 
make  four." 

It  was  clear  to  him  from  the  squire's  tone  and  manner  that 
Mr.  Wendover's  instincts  on  the  point  were  very  much  what 
he  had  expected,  the  instincts  of  the  philosophical  man  of  the 
world,  who  scorns  the  notion  of  taking  popular  beliefs  serious- 
ly, whether  for  protest  or  for  sympathy.  But  he  was  too  w^eary 
to  argue.^  The  squire,  however,  rose  hastily  and  began  to  walk 
up  and  down  in  a  gathering  storm  of  irritation.  The  triumph 
gained  for  his  own  side,  the  tribute  to  his  life's  work,  were  at 
the  moment  absolutely  indifferent  lo  him.  They  were  effaced 
by  something  else  much  harder  to  analyze.  Whatever  it  was, 
ifc  drove  him  to  throw  himseK  into  Robert's  position  with  a 
perverse,  bewildering  bitterness. 

''Why  should  you  break  up  your  life  in  this  wanton  way? 
Who,  in  God's  name,  is  injured  if  you  keep  your  living?  It  is 
the  business  of  the  thinker  and  the  scholar  to  clear  his  mind  of 
cobwebs.  Granted.  You  have  done  it.  But  it  is  also  the  busi- 
ness of  the  practical  man  to  live.  If  I  had  your  altruist  emo- 
tional temperament  I  should  not  hesitate  for  a  moment.  I 
should  regard  the  historical  expressions  of  an  eternal  tendency 
in  men  as  wholly  indifferent  to  me.  If  I  understand  you  aright, 
you  have  flung  away  the  sanctions  of  orthodoxy.  There  is  no 
other  in  the  way.   Treat  words  as  they  deserve.    You  "—and 


446 


ROBEBT  ELSMEBE. 


the  speaker  laid  an  emphasis  on  the  pronoun  which  for  the  life 
of  him  he  could  not  help  making  sarcastic — you  will  always 
have  Gospel  enough  to  preach." 

I  can  not,"  Eobert  repeated,  quietly,  unmoved  by  the  taunt, 
if  it  was  one.  I  am  in  a  different  stage,  I  imagine,  from  you. 
Words— that  is  to  say,  the  specific  Christian  formulae— may  be 
indifferent  to  you,  though  a  month  or  two  ago  I  should  hardly 
have  guessed  it;  they  are  just  now  anything  but  indifferent  to 
me." 

The  squire's  brow  gi^ew  darker.  He  took  up  the  argument 
again,  more  pugnaciously  than  ever.  It  was  the  strangest  at- 
tempt ever  made  to  gibe  and  flout  a  wandering  sheep  back  into 
the  fold.  Robert's  resentment  was  roused  at  last.  The  squire's 
temper  seemed  to  him  totally  inexplicable,  his  arguments  con- 
tradictory, the  conversation  useless  and  irritating.  He  got  up 
to  take  his  leave. 

What  are  you  about  to  do,  Elsmere,"  the  squire  wound  up 
with  saturnine  emphasis,  is  a  piece  of  cowardice  !  You  will 
live  bitterly  to  regret  the  haste  and  the  unreason  of  it." 

* '  There  has  been  no  haste, "  exclaimed  Robert,  in  the  low  tone 
of  passionate  emotion;  I  have  not  rooted  up  the  most  sacred 
growths  of  life  as  a  careless  child  devastates  its  garden.  There 
are  some  things  which  a  man  only  does  because  he  mi^f." 

There  was  a  pause.  Robert  held  out  his  hand.  The  squire 
would  hardly  touch  it.  Outwardly  his  mood  was  one  of  the 
strangest  eccentricity  and  anger;  and  as  to  what  was  beneath 
it,  Elsmere's  quick  divination  was  dulled  by  worry  and  fatigue. 
It  only  served  him  so  far  that  at  the  door  he  turned  back,  hat 
in  hand,  and  said,  looking  lingeringly  the  while  at  the  solitary 
somber  figiu^,  at  the  great  library,  with  all  its  suggestive  and 
exquisite  detail:  ** If  Monday  is  fine,  squire,  will  you  walk?" 

The  squire  made  no  reply  except  by  another  question. 

**Do  you  still  keep  to  your  Swiss  plans  for  next  week?"  he 
asked,  sharply. 

"Certainly.  The  plan,  as  it  happens,  is  a  godsend.  But 
there,"  said  Eobert,  with  a  sigh,  **let  me  explain  the  details 
of  this  dismal  business^to  you  on  Monday,  I  have  hardly  the 
courage  for  it  now." 

The  curtain  dropped  behind  him.  Mr.  Wendover  stood  a 
minute  looking  after  him;  then,  with  some  vehement  expletive 
or  other,  walked  up  to  his  writing-table,  drew  some  folios  that 
were  lying  on  ife  toward  him,  with  hasty  maladroit  movements 


EOBEBT  ELSMEBB. 


447 


wiiicli  sent  his  papers  flying  over  the  floor,  and  plunged  dog- 
gedij  into  work. 

He  and  Mrs.  Darcy  dined  alone.   After  dinner  the  squire 
leaned  against  the  mantel-piece  sipping  his  coffee,  moro  gloom 
iiy  silent  than  even  his  sister  had  seen  him  for  weeks.    And,  as 
always  happened  when  he  became  more  difficult  and  morose, 
she  became  more  childish.    She  was  now  wholly  absorbed  ¥/ith 
a  little  electric  toy  she  had  just  bought  for  Mary  Elsmere,  a 
number  of  infinitesimal  little  figures  dancing  fantastically 
under  the  stimulus  of  an  electric  current,  generated  by  the 
simplest  means.    She  hung  over  it  absorbed,  calling  to  her 
^brother  every  now  and  then,  as  though  by  sheer  perversity,  to 
I  come  and  look  whenever  the  pink  or  the  blue  dansuese  exe- 
;  cuted  a  more  surprising  somersault  than  usual. 

He  took  not  the  smallest  spoken  notice  of  her,  though  his 
1  eyes  followed  her  contemptuously  as  she  moved  from  window 
to  window  with  her  toy  in  pursuit  of  the  fading  light. 

Oh,  Eoger,"  she  called  presently,  still  throv/ing  herself  to 
this  side  and  that,  to  catch  new  views  of  her  pith  puppets,  I 
have  got  something  to  show  you.  You  must  admire  them— 
you  shall !  I  have  been  drawing  them  all  day,  and  they  are 
nearly  done.  Ihu  remember  what  I  told  you  once  about  my 
^  imps '  ?  I  have  seen  them  all  my  life,  since  I  was  a  child  in 
I  France  with  papa,  and  I  have  never  been  able  to  draw  them 
i  till  the  last  few  weeks.  They  are  such  dears—such  darlings; 
every  one  will  know  them  when  he  sees  them!  There  is  the 
Chinese  imp,  the  low  smirking  creature,  you  know,  that  sits 
on  the  edge  of  your  cup  of  tea;  there  is  the  fiipperty  fiopperty 
creature  that  flies  out  at  you  when  you  open  a  drawer;  there  is 
the  twisty-twirly  person  that  sits  jeering  on  the  edge  of  your 
hat  when  it  blows  away  from  you ;  and  "—her  voice  dropped— 
*Hhat  ugly,  ugly  thing  I  always  see  waiting  for  me  on  the  top 
of  a  gate.  They  have  teased  me  all  my  life,  and  now  at  last  I 
have  drawn  them.  If  they  were  to  take  offense  to-morrow  I 
should  have  them— the  beauties— all  safe." 

She  came  toward  him,  her  bizarre  little  figure  swaying  from 
side  to  side,  ber  eyes  glittering,  her  restless  hands  pulling  at 
the  lace  round  her  blanched  head  and  face.  The  squire,  his 
hands  behind  him,  looking  at  her  frow^ning,  an  involuntary 
horror  dawning  on  his  dark  count<?nance,  turned  abruptly; 
and  left  the  room. 


I 

448  ROBERT  ELSMERE.  j| 

Mr.  Wendover  worked  till  midnight;  then,  tired  out* 
turned  to  the  bit  of  fire  to  which,  in  spite  of  the  oppressivene 
of  the  weather,  the  chilliness  of  age  and  nervous  strain  had  h 
him  to  set  ahght.    He  sat  there  for  long,  sunk  in  the  blacke 
reverie.    He  was  the  only  living  creature  in  the  great  librai 
wing  which  spread  around  and  above  him— the  only  wakii 
creature  in  the  whole  vast  pile  of  Murewell.    The  silver  lam] 
shone  with  a  steady  melancholy  light  on  the  checkered  wal ' 
of  books.    The  silence  was  a  silence  that  could  be  felt ;  and  tl , 
gleaming  Artemis,  the  tortured  frowning  Medusa,  were  hard" 
stiller  in  their  frozen  calm  than  the  crouching  figure  of  tl 
squire. 

So  Elsmere  was  going !  In  a  few  weeks  the  rectory  would  1 
once  more  tenanted  by  one  of  those  nonentities  the  squire  hi 
either  patronized  or  scorned  all  his  life.  The  park,  the  lane 
the  room  in  which  he  sits,  will  know  that  spare  young  figur 
that  animated  voice,  no  more.  The  outlet  which  had  brougl 
so  much  relief  and  stimulus  to  his  own  mental  powers  is  close* 
the  friendship  on  which  he  had  unconsciously  come  to  depei 
so  much  is  broken  before  it  had  well  begun. 

All  sorts  of  strange  thwarted  instincts  make  themselves  fe 
in  the  squire.  The  wife  he  had  once  thought  to  marry,  tl 
children  he  might  have  had,  come  to  sit  hkft  ghosts  with  hi 
beside  the  fire.  He  had  never,  like  Augustine,  * '  loved  to  love 
he  had  only  loved  to  know.  But  none  of  us  escapes  to  the  la 
the  yearnings  which  make  us  men.  The  squire  becomes  co: 
scious  that  certain  fibers  he  had  thought  long  since  dead  in  hi 
had  been  all  the  while  twining  themselves  silently  round  tl 
disciple  who  had  shown  him  in  many  respects  such  a  filial  co 
sideration  and  confidence.  That  young  man  might  have  b 
come  to  him  the  son  of  his  old  age,  tl^e  one  human  being  fro 
whom,  as  weakness  of  mind  and  body  break  him  down,  ev( 
his  indomitable  spirit  might  bave  accepted  the  sweetness 
human  pity,  the  comfort  of  human  help. 

And  it  is  his  own  hand  which  has  done  most  to  break  ti 
nascent,  slowly  forming  tie.    He  has  bereft  himself. 

With  what  incredible  recklessness  had  he  been  acting  i 
these  months ! 

It  was  the  levity  of  his  own  proceeding  which  stared  him 
the  face.   His  rough  hand  had  closed  on  the  delicate  wings 
a  5!oul  as  a  boy  crushes  the  butterfly  he  pursues.    As  Elsme 
nad  stood  looking  back  at  him  from  the  library  door,  the  suffe 


1 


KOBERT  ELSMERE. 


449 


mg  which  spoke  in  every  line  of  that  changed  face  had  stirred 
,  a  sudden  troubled  remorse  in  Eoger  Wendover.    It  was  mere 

justice  that  one  result  of  that  suffering  should  be  to  leave  him- 
.  3elf  forlorn. 

He  had  been  thinking  and  writing  of  religion,  of  the  history 
•[  d£  ideas,  all  his  life.    Had  he  ever  yet  grasped  the  meaning  of 
^  religion  to  the  religious  manf   God  and  faith—what  have 
these  venerable  ideas  ever  mattered  to  him  personally,  except 
:3.s  the  subjects  of  the  most  ingenious  analysis,  the  most  deli- 
,  pate  historical  inductions  ?   Not  only  skeptical  to  the  core,  but 
i3onstitutionally  indifferent,  the  squire  had  always  found 
'  anough  to  make  Kfe  amply  worth  living  in  the  m.ere  dissection 
u  pf  other  men's  beliefs. 

.\    But  to-night !   The  unexpected  shock  of  feeling,  mingled  with 
^ihe  terrible  sense,  periodically  alive  in  him,  of  physical  doom, 
jeems  to  have  stripped  from  the  thorny  soul  its  outer  defenses 
)f  mental  habit.    He  sees  once  more  the  hideous  spectacle  of 
■  lis  father's  death,  his  own  black,  half -remembered  moments 
|)f  warning,  the  teasing  horror  of  his  sister's  increasing  weak- 
less  of  brain.    Life  has  been  on  the  whole  a  burden,  though 
|,  iberehas  been  a  certain  joy  no  doubt  in  the  fierce  intellectual 
J  struggle  of  it.    And  to-night  it  seems  so  nearly  over!   A  cold 
,.  prescience  of  death  creeps  over  the  squire  as  he  sits  in  the 
:amplighted  siknce.    His  eye  seems  to  be  actually  penetrating 
,  pe  eternal  vastness  which  lies  about  our  life.    He  feels  him- 
.  lelf  old,  feeble,  alone.    The  awe,  the  terror  which  are  at  the 
..  wt  of  all  religions  have  fallen  even  upon  him  at  last. 

The  fire  burns  lower,  the  night  wears  on;  outside,  an  airless, 
nisty  moonhght  hes  over  park  and  field.   Hark  I  was  that  a 
.  lound  upstairs,  in  one  of  those  silent  empty  rooms  ? 
^  ;  The  squire  half  rises,  one  hand  on  his  chair,  his  blanched 
Bce  strained,  listening.    Again !   Is  it  a  footstep  or  simply  a 
,  lelusion  of  the  ear  ?  He  rises,  pushes  aside  the  curtains  into 
he  inner  library,  where  the  lamps  have  almost  burned  away, 
j  TOeps  up  the  wooden  stair,  and  into  the  deserted  upper  story. 
Why  was  that  door  into^he  end  room-  his  father's  room— 
)pen  ?   He  had  seen  it  closed  that  afternoon.   No  one  had  been 
here  since.    He  stepped  nearer.    Was  that  simply  a  gleam  of 
noonlight  on  the  polished  floor— confused  lines  of  shadow 
hrown  by  the  vine  outside  ?   And  was  that  sound  nothing  but 
he  stirring  of  the  rising  wind  of  dawn  against  the  ope^  case 
nent  window?  Or; 


450  EGBERT  ELSMERB.  f 

''My  Godr 

The  squire  fled  down-stairs.    He  gained  his  chair  again.  He 

sat  upright  an  instant,  impressing  on  himself,  with  sardonic, 
vindictive  force,  some  of  those  truisms  as  to  the  action  of  mind 
on  body,  of  brain-process  on  sensation,  which  it  had  been  part 
of  his  Kfe's  work  to  ilhistrate.  The  philosopher  had  time  to 
reahze  a  shuddering  fellowship  of  weakness  with  liis  kind,  to 
see  himself  as  a  helpless  instance  of  an  inexorable  law,  before 
he  fell  back  in  his  chair;  a  swoon,  born  of  pitiful  humr.n  terror 
— terror  of  things  unseen— creeping  over  heart  and  brain. 


BOOK  v.— ROSE, 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 

It  was  a  November  afternoon.  London  lay  wrapped  in 
rainy  fog.  The  atmosphere  was  such  as  only  a  Londoner  can 
breathe  with  equanimity,  and  the  gloom  was  indescribable. 

'^Meanw^hile,  in  defiance  of  the  inferno  outside,  festal  prepara- 
tions were  being  made  in  a  little  house  on  Campden  Hill.  Lamps 
were  Hghted ;  in  the  drawing-room  chairs  were  pushed  back ;  the 
piano  w^as  open,  and  a  violin  stand  towered  beside  it;  chrysan- 
themums were  everywhere;  an  invalid  lady  in  a  ''best  cap"oc-. 
cupied  the  sofa;  and  two  girls  were  flitting  about,  clearly  mak-^ 
ing  the  last  arrangements  necessary  for  a  "musical  afternoon.'^ 

The  invaUd  was  Mrs.  Leybm-n,  the  girls,  of  course,  Rose  and- 
Agnes.   Rose  at  last  was  safely  settled  in  her  longed-for  Lon- 
don, and  an  artistic  company,  of  the  sort  her  soul  loved,  was  = 
coming  to  tea  with  her. 

Of  Rose's  summer  at  Burwood  very  Uttle  need  be  said.  She  i 
was  conscious  that  she  had  not  borne  it  very  well.  She  had 
been  oif-hr.nd  with  Mrs.  Thornburgh,  and  had  enjoyed  one  or 
two  open  skirmishes  with  Mrs.  Seaton.  Her  whole  temper  had 
been  iiTitating  and  irritable— she  was  perfectly  aw^are  of  it. 
Toward  her  sick  mother,  indeed,  she  had  controlled  herself; 
not,  for  such  a  restless  creature,  had  she  made  a  bad  nurse. 
But  Agnes  had  endured  much,  and  found  it  all  the  harder  be- 
cause she  was  so  totally  in  the  dark  as  to  the  whys  and  where- 
fores of  her  sister's  moods. 

Rose  herself  would  have  scornfully  denied  that  any  whys 
and  wherefores -beyond  her  rooted  dishke  of  Whindale— ex- 
isted.  Since  her  return  from  Berlin,  and  especially  since  that 


ROBEBT  ELSMEBE, 


451 


moment  when,  as  she  was  certain,  Mr.  Langham  had  avoided 
her  and  Catherine  at  the  National  Gallery,  she  had  been 
calmly  certain  of  her  own  heart-wholeness.  Berlin  had  devel- 
oped her  precisely  as  she  had  desired  that  it  might.  The  ne- 
cessities of  the  Bohemian  studefnt's  life  had  trained  her  to  a 
new  independence  and  shrewdness,  and  in  her  own  opinion  she 
was  now  a  woman  of  the  world  judging  all  things  by  pure 
reason. 

Oh,  of  course,  she  understood  him  perfectly.  In  the  first 
place,  at  the  time  of  their  first  meeting  she  had  been  a  mere 
bread-and-butter  miss,  the  easiest  of  preys  for  any  one  who 
might  wish  to  get  a  few  hours'  amusement  and  distraction  out 
of  her  temper  and  caprices.  In  the  next  place,  even  suppos- 
ing  he  had  been  ever  inclined  to  fall  in  love  with  her,  which 
her  new  sardonic  fairness  of  mind  obliged  her  to  regard  as  en- 
tirely doubtful,  he  was  a  man  to  whom  marriage  was  impossi- 
ble. How  could  any  one  expect  such  a  superfine  dreamer  to 
turn  bread-winner  for  a  wife  and  household?  Imagine  Mr. 
Langham  interviewed  by  a  rate-collector  or  troubled  about 
coals!  As  to  her— simply  she  had  misunderstood  the  laws  of 
the  game.  It  was  a  little  bitter  to  have  to  confess  it;  a  little 
bitter  that  he  should  have  seen  it,  and  have  felt  reluctantly 
compelled  to  recall  the  facts  to  her.  But,  after  all,  most  girls 
have  some  young  follies  to  blush  over. 

So  far  the  little  cynic  would  get,  becoming  rather  more 
scarlet,  however,  over  the  process  of  reflection  than  was  quite 
compatible  with  the  ostentatious  worldly  wisdom  of  it.  Then 
a  sudden  imvard  restlessness  would  break  through,  and  she 
would  spend  a  passionate  hour  pacing  up  and  dov/n,  and  hun- 
gering for  the  moment  when  she  might  avenge  upon  herself 
and  him  the  week  of  silly  friendship  he  had  found  it  neces- 
sary as  her  elder  and  monitor  to  cut  short ! 

In  September  came  the  news  of  Robert's  resignation  of  his 
living.  Mother  and  daughters  sat  looking  at  each  other  over 
the  letter,  stupified.  That  this  calamity,  of  all  others,  should 
have  fallen  on  Catherine,  of  all  women  1  Eose  said  very  little, 
and  presently  jumped  up  with  shining,  excited  eyes,  and  ran 
out  for  a  walk  with  Bob,  leaving  Agnes  to  console  their  tearful 
and  agitated  mother.  When  she  came  in  she  went  singing 
about  the  house  as  usual.  Agnes,  who  was  moved  by  the 
news-  out  of  all  her  ordinary  sang  froid,  was  outraged  by 
what,  seemed  to  her  Eose's  callousness.   She  wrote  a  letter  t0 


452 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


Catherine,  which  Catherine  put  among  her  treasures,  so 
strangely  unlike  it  was  to  the  quiet  indifferent  Agnes  of  every- 
day. Rose  spent  a  morning  over  an  attempt  at  a  letter,  which 
when  it  reached  its  destination  only  wounded  Catherine  by  its 
constraint  and  convention. 

And  yet  that  same  night  when  the  child  was  alone,  sud- 
denly some  phrase  of  Catherine's  letter  recurred  to  her.  She 
smv,  as  only  imaginative  people  see,  with  every  detail  visual- 
ized, her  sister's  suffering,  her  sister's  struggle  that  was  to  be. 
She  jumped  into  bed,  and,  stifling  all  sounds  under  the  clothes, 
cried  herself  to  sleep,  which  did  not  prevent  her  next  morning 
from  harboring  somewhere  at  the  bottom  of  her  a  wicked  and 
furtive  satisfaction  that  Catherine  might  now  learn  there  were 
more  opinions  in  the  wocld  than  one. 

As  for  the  rest  of  the  valley,  Mrs.  Leybum  soon  passed 
from  bewaihng  to  a  plaintive  indignation  with  Eobert,  which 
was  a  relief  to  her  daughters.   It  seemed  to  her  a  reflection  on 

Richard"  that  Robert  should  have  behaved  so.  Church 
opinions  had  been  good  enough.for  "Richard."  "The  young 
men  seem  to  think,  my  dears,  their  fathers  were  all  fools  1" 

The'vicar,  good  man,  was  sincerely  distressed,  but  sincerely 
confident,  also,  that  in  time  Elsmere  would  find  his  way  back 
into  the  fold.  In  Mrs.  Thwnburgh's  dismay  there  was  a  se- 
cret superstitious  pang.  Perhaps  she  had  better  not  have 
meddled.  Perhaps  it  was  never  well  to  meddle.  One  event 
bears  many  readings,  and  the  tragedy  of  Catherine  Elsmere's 
Ufe  took  shape  in  the  uneasy  consciousness  of  the  vicar's 
spouse  as  a  more  or  less  sharp  admonition  against  wiUfuiness 
in  match-making. 

Of  course  Rose  had  her  way  as  to  wintering  in  London. 
They  came  up  in  the  middle  of  October  while  the  Elsmeres 
were  still  abroad,  and  settled  into  a  small  house  in  Lerwick 
Gardens,  Campdea  Hill,  which  Catherine  had  secured  for 
them  on  her  way  through  town  to  the  Continent. 

As  soon  as  Mrs.  Leyburn  had  been  made  comfortable,  ^ftose 
set  to  work  to  look  up  her  friends.  She  owed  her  acquaint- 
ance ia  London  hitherto  mainly  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pierson,  the 
young  barrister  and  his  sesthetic  wife  whom  she  had  originally 
met  and  made  friends  with  in  a  railway-carriage.  Mr.  Pierson 
was  busthng  and  shrewd ;  not  made  of  the  finest  clay,  yet  not 
at  all  a  bad  fellow.  His  wife,  the  daughter  of  a  famous  Mrs.\ 
Leo  Hunter  of  a  by -gone  generation,  was  small,  untidy,  and 


EOBEBT  ELSMEEE. 


453 


in  all  matters  of  religious  or  political  opinion  emancipated" 
to  an  extreme.  She  had  also  a  strong  vein  of  inherited  social 
ambition,  and  she  and  her  husband  welcomed  Eose  with 
greater  effusion  than  ever,  in  proportion  as  shi  was  more 
beautiful  and  more  indisputably  gifted  than  ever.  They 
placed  themselves  and  their  house  at  the  girl's  service,  partly 
out  of  genuine  admiration  and  good  nature,  partly  also  because 
they  divined  in  her  a  profitable  social  appendage. 

For  the  Piersons,  socially,  were  still  climbing,  and  had  by  no 
means  attained.  Their  world,  so  far,  consisted  too  much  of 
the  odds  and  ends  of  most  other  worlds.  They  were  not  satis- 
fied with  it,  and  the  friendship  of  the  girl-violinist,  whose  viva- 
cious beauty  and  artistic  gift  made  a  stir  wherever  she  went, 
was  a  very  welcome  addition  to  their  resources.  They  feted 
her  in  their  own  house;  they  took  her  to  the  houses  of  other 
people;  society  smOed  on  Miss  Leyburn's  protectors  more  than 
it  had  ever  smiled  on  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pierson  taken  alone;  and 
meanwhile  Rose,  flushed,  excited,  and  totally  unsuspicious, 
thought  the  world  a  fairy  tale,  and  lived  from  morning  till 

_  night  in  a  perpetual  din  of  music,  compliments,  and  bravos, 

i  which  seemed  to  her  life  indeed— life  at  last! 

With  the  beginning  of  November  the  Elsmeres  returned,  and 
about  the  same  time  Rose  began  to  project  tea  parties  of  her 
own,  to  which  Mrs.  Ley  burn  gave  a  flurried  assent.  When 
the  invitations  were  written,  Rose  sat  staring  at  them  a  little, 
pen  in  hand. 

''I  wonder  what  Catherine  will  say  to  some  of  these  peo- 
pie  she  remarked  in  a  dubious  voice  to  Agnes.  ''Some  of 
them  are  queer,  I  admit;  but,  after  all,  those  two  supejior  per- 
sons will  have  to  get  used  to  my  friends  some  time,  and  they 
may  as  well  begm." 

You  can  not  expect  poor  Cathie  to  come,"  said  Agnes  with 
sudden  energy. 

Rose's  eyebrows  went  up.  Agnes  resented  her  ironical  ex- 
pression, and  with  a  word  or  two  of  quite  unusual  sharpness 
got  up  and  went. 

feose,  left  alone,  sprung  up  suddenly,  and  clasped  her  white 
fingers  above  her  head,  with  a  long  breath. 

''*Where  my  heart  used  to  be  there  is  just— a  black- 
cold- cinder,"  she. remarked  with  sarcastic  emphasis.  I  am 
sure  I  used  to  be  a  nice  girl  once,  but  it  is  so  long  ago  I  can't 
remember  it!" 


454 


BOBEBT  ELSMEBE. 


'  She  stayed  so  a  minute  or  more;  then  two  tears  suddenly  i 
broke  and  fell.  She  dashed  them  angrily  away,  and  sat  down  1 
again  to  her  note -writing.  j 

Among  the  cards  she  had  still  to  fill  up  was  one  of  which  the  - 
envelope  was  addressed  to  the  Hon.  Hugh  Flaxman,  90  St. 
James's  Place.    Lady  Charlotte,  though  she  had  afterward 
again  left  town,  had  been  in  Martin  Street  at  the  end  of  Octo- 
ber.  The  Leyburns  had  lunched  there,  and  had  been  intro- 
duced by  her  to  her  nephew  and  Lady  Helen's  brother,  Mr. 
Flaxman.   The  girls  had  found  him  agi'eeable ;  he  had  called  i 
the  week  afterward  when  they  were  not  at  home;  and  Rose ' 
DOW  carelessly  sent  him  a  card,  with  the  inward  reflection  that 
he  was  much  too  great  a  man  to  come,  and  was  probably  en- 
joying himself  at  country  houses,  as  every  aristocrat  should, 
ir^^November.  ' 

The  following  day  the  two  girls  made  their  way  over  to  Bed- 
ford Square,  where  the  Elsmeres  had  taken  a  house  in  order  to 
be  near  the  British  Museum.  They  pushed  their  way  upstairs 
thi^ough  a  medley  of  packing-cases  and  a  sickening  smell  of 
paint.  There  was  a  sound  of  an  opening  door,  and  a  gentle^ 
man  stepped  out  of  the  back  room,  which  was  to  be  Elsmere^ 
study,  on  to  the  landing. 

It  was  Edward  Langham.  He  and  Rose  stood  and  stared  at 
each  other  a  moment.  Then  Rose  in  the  coolest,  lightest  voice 
introduced  him  to  Agnes.  Agnes,  with  one  curious  glance, 
took  in  her  sister's  defiant,  smiling  ease  and  the  stranger's  em- 
barrassment; then  she  went  on  to  find  Catherine.  The  two 
left  behind  exchanged  a  few  banal  questions  and  answers. 
Langha-ai  had  only  allowed  himself  one  look  at  the  dazzling: 
face  and  eyes  framed  in  fur  cap  and  boa.  Afterward  he  stood 
making  a  study  of  the  gi*ound,  and  answering  her  remarks  in 
his  usual  stumbling  fashion.  What  was  it  had  gone  out  of  her 
veice— simply  the  soft  callow  sounds  of  first  youth?  And 
what  a  personage  she  had  grown  in  these  twelve  months— how 
formidably,  consciously  brilHant  in  look  and  dress  and  man-: 
ner! 

Yes,  he  was  still  in  town— settled  tkere,  indeed,  for  some 
time.  And  she — was  there  any  special  day  on  which  Mrs. 
Leyburn  received  visitors  ?  He  asked  the  question,  of  course, 
with  various  hesitations  and  circumlocutions. 

**0h,  dear,  yes!  Will  you  come  next  Wednesday,  for  hx' 
instance,  and  inspect  a  musical  menagerie  ?  The  animals  will 


BOBERT  ELSMERE. 


455 


go  tiirougii  their  performances  from  four  till  seven.  And  I 
can  answer  for  it  that  some  of  the  specimens  will  be  entirely 
new  to  you." 

The  prospect  offered  could  hardly  have  been  m.ore  repellent 
to  him,  but  he  got  out  an  acceptance  somehow.  She  nodded 
lightly  to  him  and  passed  on,  and  he  went  down-stairs,  ais 

I  head  in  a  whirl.  Where  ha,d  the  crude  pretty  child  of  yester- 
year departed  to— impulsive,  conceited,  readily  offended,  easily 
touched,  sensitive  as  to  what  all  the  world  might  think  of  her 
and  her  performances?   The  girl  he  had  just  left  had  counted 

I  ail  her  resources,  tried  the  edge  of  all  her  weapons,  and  knew 
her  own  place  too  well  to  ask  for  anybody  else's  appraisement. 
What  beauty— good  heavens !— what  aplomb  I  The  rich  hus- 
band Elsmere  talked  of  would  hardly  take  much  waiting  for. 

So  cogitating,  Langham  took  his  way  westward  to  his  Beau- 
mont Street  rooms.  They  were  on  the  second-fioor,  small,  dingy, 
choked  with  books.  Ordinarily  he  shut  the  door  behind  him  with 
a  sign  of  content.  This  evening  they  seemed  to  him  intolerably 
confined  and  stuffy.    He  thought  of  going  out  to  his  club  and  a 

%ncert,  but  did  nothing,  after  all,  but  sit  brooding  over  the 
fire  till  midnight,  alternately  hugging  and  hating  his  solitude. 

And  so  we  return  to  the  Wednesday  following  this  unexpect- 
ed meeting. 

The  drawing-room  at  No.  27  was  beginning  to  fill.  Eose 
j  stood  at  the  door  receiving  the  guests  as  they  flowed  in,  while 
I  Agnes  in  the  background  dispensed  tea.  She  was  discussing  with 
herself  the  probability  of  Langham's  appearance.  ''Whom 
shall  I  introduce  him  to  first?"  she  pondered,  while  she  shook 
hands.  ' '  The  poet?  I  see,mamma  is  now  struggling  with  him. 
The  'cellist  with  the  hair— or  the  lady  in  Greek  dress—or  the 
i  esoteric  Buddhist  ?  What  a  fascinating  selection !  I  had  really 
no  notion  we  should  be  quite  so  curious !" 

''Mees  Rose,  they  vait  for  you,"  said  a  charming  golden- 
bearded  young  German,  viola  in  hand,  bowing  before  her.  He 
and  his  kind  were  most  of  them  in  love  with  her  already,  and 
all  the  more  so  because  she  knew  so  well  how  to  keep  them  at 
a  distance. 

She  went  off,  beckoning  to  Agnes  to  take  her  place,  and  fhe 
I  quartet  began.  The  young  German  aforesaid  played  the  viola, 
1  while  the  'cello  was  divinely  played  by  a  Hungarian,  of  whose 
outer  man  it  need  only  be  said  that  in  wild  profusion  of  much-' 

1 


456 


KOBEBT  ELSMEBE. 


tortured  hair,  in  Hebraism  of  feature,  and  swarthy  smoothness 

of  cheek,  he  belonged  to  that  type  which  Nature  would  seem  to 
have  already  used  to  excess  in  the  production  of  the  continental 
musician.  Eose  herself  was  violinist,  and  the  instruments 
dashed  into  the  opening  allegro  with  a  precision  and  an  entrain 
that  took  the  room  by  storm. 

In  the  middle  of  it,  Langham  pushed  his  way  into  the  crowd 
round  the  drawing-room  door.  Through  the  heads  about  him, 
he  could  see  her  standing  a  Utile  m  advance  of  the  others,  her 
head  turned  to  one  side,  really  in  the  natural  attitude  of  violin- 
playing,  but,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  in  a  kind  of  ravishment  of 
hstening— cheeks  flushed,  eyes  shining,  and  the  right  arm  and 
high-curved  wrist  managing  the  bow  with  a  grace  born  of 
knowledge  and  fine  training. 

''Very  much  improved,  eh?"  said  an  English  professional  to 
a  German  neighbor,  lifting  his  eyebrows  interrogatively. 
'    The  other  nodded  with  the  business-like  air  of  one  who 
knows.    "Joachim,  they  say,  wm^  daruber  entzucM,  and  did 

his  best  vid  her,  and  now  D  has  got  her"— naming  a  fa-  ^ 

mous  viohnist— "  she  vill  make  fast  brogress.  He  vill  schtamp  " 
upon  her  treecks  1" 

"But  will  she  ever  be  more  than  a  very  clever  amateur? 

Too  pretty,  eh?"   And  the  questioner  nudged  his  companion, 

dropping  his  voice. 
Langham  would  have  given  worlds  to  get  on  into  the  room, 

over  the  prostrate  body  of  the  speaker  by  preference,  but  the 

laws  of  mass  and  weight  had  him  at  their  mercy,  and  he  was 

rooted  to  the  spot. 
The  other  shrugged  his  shoulders.   ' '  Veil,  vid  a  bretty  woman 

—uherhaiipt— it  dosn't  m.ean  business!  « It's  zoziety— the  dukes 

and  the  duchesses— that  ruins  all  the  young  talents." 
This  whispered  conversation  went  on  during  the  andante. 

With  the  scherzo  the  two  hirsute  faces  broke  into  broad  smiles. 

The  artist  behind  each  woke  up,  and  Langham  heard  no  more, 

except  guttural  sounds^  dehght  and  quick  notes  of  technical 

criticism. 

How  that  scherzo  danced  and  coquetted,  and  how  the  presto 
flew  as  though  all  the  winds  were  behind  it,  chasing  its  mad 
eddies  of  notes  through  listening  space!  At  the  end,  amid  a 
wild  storm  of  applause,  she  laid  down  her  violin,  and,  proudly 
smiling,  her  breast  still  heaving  with  excitement  and  exertion, 
received  the  praises  of  those  crowding  round  her.   The  group 


ROBERT  SLSMERE. 


457 


round  the  door  was  precipitated  forward,  and  Langham  with  it. 
She  saw  him  in  a  moment.  Her  white  brow  contracted,  and 
she  gave  him  a  quick  but  hardly  smiling  glance  of  recognition 
through  the  crowd.  He  thought  there  was  no  chance  of  get- 
ting at  her,  and  moved  aside  amid  the  general  hubbub  to  look 
at  a  picture. 

^*Mr.  Langham,  how  do  you  do?" 

He  turned  sharply  and  found  her  beside  him.  She  had  come 
to  him  with  malice  in  her  heart— malice  born  of  smart  and  long- 
smoldering  pain;  but  as  she  caught  his  look,  the  look  of  the 
nervous,  short-sighted  scholar  and  recluse,  as  her  glance  swept 
over  the  delicate  refinement  of  the  face,  a  sudden  softness 
quivered  in  her  own.    The  game  was  so  defenseless ! 

You  will  find  nobody  here  you  know,"  she  said,  abruptly,  a 
little  under  her  breath.  I  am  morally  certain  you  never  saw 
a  single  person  in  the  room  before !   Shall  I  introduce  you?" 

^'Delighted,  of  course.  But  don't  disturb  yourself  about 
me,  Miss  Leyburn.v  I  come  out  of  my  hole  so  seldom,  every- 
thing amuses  me— but  especially  looking  and  listening." 

Which  means,"  she  said,  with  frank  audacity,  that  you 
dislike  new  people !" 

His  eye  kindled  at  once.  Say  rather  that  it  means  a  pref- 
erence for  the  people  that  are  not  new !  There  is  such  a  thing 
as  concentrating  one's  attention.  I  came  to  hear  you  play, 
Miss  Leyburn !" 

WeU?" 

She  glanced  at  him  from  under  her  long  lashes,  one  hand 
playing  with  the  rings  on  the  other.  He  thought,  suddenly, 
with  a  sting  of  regret,  of  the  confiding  child  who  had  flushed 
under  his  praise  that  Sunday  evening  at  Murewell. 

''Superb!"  he  said,  but  half  mechanically.  ''I  had  no 
notion  a  winter's  work  would  have  done  so  much  fo  you. 
Was  Berlin  as  stimulating  as  you  expected?  When  I  heard 
you  had  gone,  I  said  to  myself:  'Well,  at  least,  now,  there  is 
one  completely  happy  person  in  Europe!' " 

"Did  you?  How  easily  we  all  dogmatize  about  each  other?" 
she  said,  scornfully.  Her  manner  was  by  no  means  simple. 
He  did  not  feel  himself  at  all  at  ease  with  her.  His  very  em- 
barrassment, however,  drove  him  into  rashness,  as  often  hap- 
pens. 

I  thought  I  had  enough  to  go  upon!"  he  said  in  another 


458 


BOBERT  ELSMEKE. 


tone;  and  his  black  eyes,  sparkling  as  thoiigh  a  film  had! 
dropped  from  them,  supplied  the  reference  his  words  forbore. 

She  turned  away  from  him  with  a  perceptible  drawing  up  of 
the  whole  figure. 

"Will you  come  and  be  introduced?''  she  asked  him,  coldly. 
He  bowed  as  coldly  and  followed  her.  Wholesome  resentment 
of  her  manner  was  denied  him.  He  had  asked  for  her  friend- 1 
ship,  and  had  then  gone  away  and  forgotten  her.  Clearly 
what  she  meant  him  to  see  now  was  that  they  were  strangers  i 
again.  Well,  she  was  amply  in  her  right.  He  suspected  that 
his  allusion  to  their  first  talk  over  the  fire  had  not  been  imwel- 
come  to  her,  as  an  opportunity. 

And  he  had  actually  debated  whether  he  should  come,  lest 
in  spite  of  himself  she  might  beguile  him  once  more  into  those 
old  lapses  of  will  and  common  sense !   Coxcomb ! 

He  made  a  few  spasmodic  efforts  at  conversation  with  the 
lady  to  whom  she  had  introduced  him,  then  awkwardly  disen- 
gaged himseK  and  went  to  stand  in  a  comer  and  study  his  . 
neighbors. 

Close  to  him,  he  found,  was  the  poet  of  the  party,  got  up  in  i 
the  most  correct  professional  costume— long  hair,  velvet  coat, 
eyeglass  and  all.   His  extravagance,  however,  was  of  the  most 
conventional  type.    Only  his  vanity  had  a  touch  of  the  sublime. 
Langham,  who  possessed  a  sort  of  fine-ear  gift  for  catching ; 
conversation,  heard  him  saying  to  an  open-eyed  ingenue  be- ; 
side  him ; 

"Oh,  my  literary  baggage  is  small  as  yet.  I  have  only  done, 
perhaps,  three  things  that  will  live." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Wood!"  said  the  maiden,  mildly  protesting  against 
so  much  modesty. 

He  smiled,  thrusting  his  hand  into  the  breast  of  the  velvet 
coat.  ' '  But  then, "  he  said ,  in  a  tone  of  the  purest  candor,  "at 
my  age  I  don't  think  Shelley  had  done  more !" 

Langham,  who,  like  all  shy  men,  was  liable  to  occasional 
explosions,  was  seized  with  a  convulsive  fit  of  coughing,  and 
had  to  retire  from  the  neighborhood  of  the  bard,  who  looked 
round  him,  disturbed  and  slightly  frowning. 

At  last  he  discovered  a  point  of  view  in  the  back  room 
whence  he  could  watch  the  humors  of  the  crowd  without  com- 
ing too  closely  in  contact  with  them.  What  a  miscellaneous 
collection  it  was!  He  began  to  be  irritably  jealous  for  Eose's 
place  in  the  world.   She  ought  to  be  more  adequately  sur- 


EOBERT  ELSMEEE. 


450 


rounded  than  this.  What  was  Mrs.  Leybum—what  were  the 
Elsmeres  about?  He  rebelled  against  the  thought  of  her  liv- 
ing perpetually  among  her  inferiors,  the  center  of  a  vulgar 
publicity,  queen  of  the  second-rate. 

It  provoked  him  that  she  should  be  amusing  herself  so  well. 
Her  laughter,  every  now  and  then,  came  ringing  into  the  back 
room.  And  presently  there  was  a  general  hubbub.  Langham 
craned  his  neck  forward,  and  saw  a  struggle  going  on  over  a 
roll  of  music,  between  Eose  and  the  long-haired,  long-nosed 
violoncellist.  Evidently  she  did  not  want  to  play  some  par- 
ticular piece,  and  wished  to  put  it  out  of  sight.  Whereupon 
the  Hungarian,  who  had  been  clamoring  for  it,  rushed  to  its 
rescue,  and  there  was  a  mock  fight  over  it.  At  last,  amid  the 
applause  of  the  room,  Eose  was  beaten,  and  her  conqueror, 
flourishing  the  music  on  high,  executed  a  kind  of  pas  seul  of 
triumph. 

''VictoriaP^  he  cried.  "Now  denn  for  de  conditions  of 
peace.  Mees  Eose,  vill  you  kindly  tune  up?  You  are  as  moch 
beaten  as  the  French  at  Sedan." 

Not  a  stone  of  my  fortresses,  not  an  inch  of  my  territory !" 
said  Eose,  with  fine  emphasis,  crossing  her  white  wrists  be- 
fore her. 

The  Hungarian  looked  at  her,  the  wild,  poetic  strain  in  him 
which  was  the  strain  of  race  reasserting  itself. 

**But  if  de  victor  bows,"  he  said,  dropping  on  one  knee 
before  her.  *'If  force  lay  down  his  spoils  at  de  feet  of 
beauty?" 

The  circle  round  them  applauded  hotly,  the  touch  of  the- 
atricality finding  immediate  response.  Langham  was  remorse- 
lessly conscious  of  the  man's  absurd  chevelure  and  ill-fitting 
clothes.  But  Eose  herself  had  evidently  nothing  but  relish  for 
the  scene.  Proudly  smiling,  she  held  out  her  hand  for  her 
property,  and  as  soon  as  she  had  it  safe,  she  whisked  it  into  the 
open  drawer  of  a  cabinet  standing  near,  and  drawing  out  the 
key,  held  it  up  a  moment  in  her  taper  fingers,  and  then,  de- 
positing it  in  a  little  velvet  bag  hanging  at  her  girdle,  she 
closed  the  snap  upon  it  with  a  little  vindictive  wave  of  triumph. 
Every  movement  was  graceful,  rapid,  effective. 

Half  a  dozen  German  throats  broke  into  guttural  protest. 
Amid  the  storm  of  laughter  and  remonstrance,  the  door  sud- 
denly opened.  The  fluttered  parlor-maid  mumbled  a  long 
name,  and,  with  a  port  of  soldierly  uprightness,  there  advanced 


460 


ilOBERT  ELSMEBE. 


behind  her  a  large,  fair-haired  woman,  followed  by  a  gentle 
man,  and  in  the  distance  by  another  figure. 

Rose  drew  back  a  moment,  astounded,  one  hand  on  the 
piano,  her  dress  sweeping  round  her.  An  awkward  silence  fel 
on  the  chattering  circle  of  musicians. 

'*Good  heavens!"  said  Langham  to  himself,  "Lady  Char 
lotte  Wynnstay !" 

"How  do  you  do,  Miss  Ley  burn?"  said  one  of  the  most 
piercing  of  voices.  "  Are  you  surprised  to  see  me?  You  didn't ' 
ask  me— perhaps  you  don't  want  me.  But  I  have  come,  you 
see,  partly  because  my  nephew  was  coming,"  and  she  pointed 
to  the  gentlemen  behind  her,  "partly  because  I  meant  to  pun- 
ish you  for  not  having  come  to  see  me  last  Thursday.  WhyJ 
didn't  you^" 

"  Because  we  thought  you  were  still  away,"  said  Rose,  who 
had  by  this  time  recovered  her  self  possession.  "But  if  youi 
meant  to  punish  me.  Lady  Charlotte,  you  have  done  it  badly. 
I  am  delighted  to  see  you.  May  I  introduce  my  sister?  Agnes, 
will  you  find  Lady  Charlotte  Wynnstay  a  chair  by  mamma?" 

"Ob,  you  wish,  I  see,  to  dispose  of  me  at  once,"  said  the 
other,  imperturbably.    "What  is  happening?  Is  it  music  ?'^ 

Aunt  Charlotte,  that  is  most  disingenuous  on  your  part. 
I  gave  you  ample  warning." 

Rose  turned  a  smiling  face  toward  the  speaker.  It  was  Mr. 
Flaxman,  Lady  Charlotte's  companion. 

"  You  need  not  have  drawn  the  picture  too  black,  Mr.  Flax- 
man.  There  is  an  escape.  If  Lady  Charlotte  wiU  only  let  my 
sister  take  her  into  the  next  room,  she  will  find  herself  well  out 
of  the  clutches  of  the  music.  Oh,  Robert!  Here  you  are  at 
last!  Lady  Charlotte,  you  remember  my  brother-in-law? 
Robert,  will  you  get  Lady  Charlotte  some  tea?" 

"  Jam  not  going  to  be  banished,"  said  Mt.  Flaxman,  look- 
ing down  upon  her,  his  well-bred,  slightly  worn  face  aglow 
with  animation  and  pleasure. 

"Then  you  will  be  deafened,"  said  Rose,  laug^iing,  as  she 
escaped  from  him  a  moment,  to  arrange  for  a  song  fi-om  a  tall, 
formidable  maiden,  built  after  the  fashion  of  Mr.  Gilbert's 
contralto  heroines,  with  a  voice  which  bore  out  the  ample 
promise  of  her  frame. 

"  Your  sister  is  a  terribly  self-possessed  young  person,  Mr. 
Elsmere^"  said  Lady  Charlotte,  as  Robert  piloted  her  aoiw 
the  room. 


BOBERT  ELSMERE. 


461 


Does  that  imply  praise  or  blame  on  your  part,  Lady  Char- 
otte?"  asked  Eobert,  smiling. 

''Neither  at  present.  I  don't  know  Miss  Leyburn  well 
enough.  I  merely  state  a  fact.  No  tea,  Mr.  Elsmere.  I  have 
iad  three  teas  already,  and  I  am  not  like  the  American  woman 
who  could  always  worry  down  another  cup." 

She  was  introduced  to  Mrs.  Leyburn;  but  the  plaintive  in- 
vahd  was  immediately  seized  with  terror  of  her  voice  and  ap- 
pearance, and  was  infinitely  grateful  to  Eobert  for  removing 
her  as  promptly  as  possible  to  a  chaii'  on  the  border  of  the  two 
koms  where  she  could  talk  or  listen  as  she  pleased.  For  a 
lew  moments  she  listened  to  Fraulein  Adelmann's  veiled,  un- 
manageable contralto;  then  she  turned  magisterially  to  Eobert 
^  standing  behind  her. 

'^The  art  of  singing  has  gone  out,''  she  declared,  '^smce 
the  Germans  have  been  allowed  to  meddle  in  it.   By  the  way, 
Mr  Elsmere,  how  do  you  manage  to  be  here?  Are  you  taking 
ahoUday?" 
Eobert  looked  at  her  with  a  start. 
' '  I  have  left  Mure  well.  Lady  Charlotte. " 
Left  Murewell!"  she  said,  in  astonishment,  turning  round 
to  look  at  him,  her  eyeglass  in  her  eye.    ''Why  has  Helen 
tm  me  nothing  about  it?  Have  you  got  another  livmg? 

''No.  My  wife  and  I  are  settling  in  London.^^  We  only 
told  Lady  Helen  of  our  intentions  a  few  weeks  ago." 

To  which  it  may  be  added  that  Lady  Helen,  touched  and 
dismayed  by  Elsmere's  letter  to  her,  had  not  been  very  eager 
to  hand  over  the  woes  of  her  friends  to  her  aunlfs  cool  and 
irresponsible  comments.  ^  .    ^  i 

Lady  Charlotte  deliberately  looked  at  him  a  mmute  longer 
through  her  glass.   Then  she  let  it  fall. 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  any  more,  I  can  see,  Mr.  Els- 
mere   But  you  wHl  allow  me  to  be  astOnisned 
'    "  Certainly,"  he  said,  smiling  sadly,  and  immediately  after- 

^'^'n^:';SZtZ  nnire  lately."  he  a^ed  her,  af1.r 

^  -Not  from  him.  We  are  excellent  friends  when  we  meet, 
but  he  doesn't  consider  me  worth  writing  to.  His  sister-Jittle 
Sor-writes  to  me  every  now  and  then.  But  she  has  not 
vouchslfed  me  a  letter  since  the  summer.  I  should  say  from 
the  last  accounts  that  he  was  breakmg." 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 

He  had  a  mysterious  attack  of  illness  just  before  I  left,'' 
said  Robert,  gravely.    * '  It  made  one  anxious. " 

Oh,  it  is  the  old  story.  AU  the  Wendovers  have  dieST  of 
weak  heai-ts  or  queer  brains— generaUy  of  both  together.  I  im- 
agine you  had  some  experience  of  the  squire's  queerness  at  one 
time,  Mr.  Elsmere.  I  can't  say  you  and  he  seemed  to  be  on 
particularly  good  terms  on  the  only  occasion  I  ever  had  the 
pleasure  of  meeting  you  at  Mure  well." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  smiling  grimly.   She  had  a  cmdously 
exact  memory  for  the  unpleasant  scenes  of  life. 

'^Oh,  you  remember  that  unlucky  evening!''  said  Robert, 
reddening  a  Kttle.  **We  soon  got  over  that.  We  became 
great  friends." 

Agam,  however,  Lady  Charlotte  was  struck  by  the  quiet  mel- 
ancholy of  his  tone.  How  strangely  the  look  of  youth— which 
had  been  so  attractive  in  him  the  year  before— had  ebbed  from 
the  man't  face — from  complexion,  eyes,  expression!  She 
stared  at  him,  full  of  a  brusque,  tormenting  curiosity  as  to  the 
how  and  why. 

hope  there  is  some  one  among  you  strong  enough  to 
manage  Miss  Rose,"  she  said,  presently,  with  an  abrupt  change 
of  subject.  That  Httle  sister-in-law  of  yours  is  going  to  be  the 
rage." 

"  Heaven  forbid  !"  cried  Robert,  fervently. 
Heaven  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  She  is  twice  as  pretty  ^■ 
as  she  was  last  year  ;  I  am  told  she  plays  twice  as  well.  She 
had  always  the  sort  of  manner  that  provoked  people  one  mo- 
ment and  charmed  them  the  next.  And,  to  judge  by  my  few 
words  with  her  just  now,  I  should  say  she  had  developed  it 
finely.  Well,  now,  Mr.  Elsmere,  who  is  going  to  take  care  of 
her  ?" 

I  suppose  we  shall  all  have  a  try  at  it.  Lady  Charlotte." 

Her  mother  doesn't  look  to  me  a  person  of  nerve  enough," 
said  Lady  Charlotte,  coolly.  "  She  is  a  girl  certain— absolute- 
ly certaiQ— to  have  adventures,  and  you  may  as  well  be  prcs 
pared  for  them." 

**I  can  only  trust  she  will  disappoint  your  expectations, 
Lady  Charlotte,  "said  Robert,  with  a  slightly  sarcastic  em- 
phasis. 


Elsmere,  who  is  that  man  talking  to  Miss  Leybum  ?"  asked 


EGBERT  ELSMEEB, 


Langham  as  the  two  friends  stood  side  by  side,  a  little  later, 
watching  the  spectacle. 

A  certain  Mr.  Flaxman,  brother  to  a  pretty  little  neighbor 
of  ours  in  Surrey— Lady  Helen  Varley— and  nephew  to  Lady 
Charlotte.  I  have  not  seen  him  here  before;  but  I  think  the 
girls  like  him." 

Is  he  the  Flaxman  who  got  the  mathematical  prize  at  Ber- 
lin last  year  ?" 

^'Yes,  I  believe  so.  A  striking  person  altogether.  He  is 
enormously  rich,  Lady  Helen  tells  me,  m  spite  of  an  elder 
brother.  All  the  money  in  his  mother's  family  has  come  to  him, 
and  he  is  the  heir  to  Lord  Daniel's  great  Derbyshire  property. 
Twelve  years  ago  I  used  to  hear  him  talked  about  incessantly 
by  the  Cambridge  men  one  met.  ''Citizen  Flaxman  "they 
calie^  him,  for  his  opinions'  sake.  He  would  ask  his  scout  to 
dinner,  and  insist  on  dining  with  his  own  servants,  and  shak- 
ing hands  with  his  friends'  butlers.  The  scouts  and  the  butlers 
put  an  end  to  that,  and  altogether,  I  imagine,  the  world  disap- 
pointed him.  He  has  a  story,  poor  fellow,  too— a  young  wife, 
who  died  with  her  first  baby  ten  years  ago.  The  world  sup- 
poses him  never  to  have  got  over  it,  which  makes  him  all  the 
more  interesting.  A  distinguished  face,  don't  you  think?— the 
good  type  of  English  aristocrat." 

Langham  assented.  But  his  attention  was  fixed  on  the  group 
in  which  Rose's  bright  hair  was  conspicuous;  and  when Eobert 
left  him  and  went  to  amuse  Mrs.  Leyburn,  he  still  stood  rooted 
to  the  same  spot  watching.  Rose  was  leaning  against  the  piano, 
one  hand  behind  her,  her  whole  attitude  full  of  a  young,  easy- 
self-confident  grace.  Mr.  Flaxman  was  standing  beside  her, 
and  they  were  deep  in  talk— serious  talk  apparently,  to  judge 
by  her  quiet  manner  and  the  charmed  attentive  interest  of  his 
look.  Occasionally,  however,  there  was  a  sally  on  her  part, 
and  an  answering  flash  of  laughter  on  his ;  but  the  stream  of 
conversation  closed  immediately  over  the  interruption,  and 
flowed  on  as  evenly  as  before. 

Unconsciously  Langham  retreated  further  and  further  into 
the  comparative  darkness  of  the  inner  room.  He  felt  himself 
singularly  insignificant  and  out  of  place,  and  he  made  no  more 
efforts  to  talk.  Rose  played  a  violin  solo,  and  played  it  with 
astonishing  delicacy  and  fire.  When  it  was  over  Langham  saw 
her  turn  from  the  applauding  circle  crowding  in  upon  her  and 
throw  a  smiling  interrogative  look  over  her  shoulder  at  Mr- 


464 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


Flaxman.  Mr.  Flaxman  bent  over  her,  and  as  he  spoke  Lang- 
ham  caught  her  iBlush  and  the  excited  sparkle  of  her  eyes. 
Was  this  the  ^'some  one  in  the  stream"?  No  doubt !— no 
doubt ! 

When  the  party  broke  up  Langham  found  himself  borne  to- 
ward the  outer  room,  and  before  he  knew  where  he  was  going 
he  was  standing  beside  her. 

^' Are  you  here  still  ?"  she  said  to  him,  startled,  as  he  held 
out  his  hand.  He  replied  by  some  comments  on  the  music,  a 
little  lumbering  and  infelicitous,  as  all  his  small-talk  was.  She 
hardly  listened,  but  presently  she  looked  up  nervously,  com- 
pelled as  it  were  by  the  great  melancholy  eyes  above  her. 

*'We  are  not  always  in  this  turmoil,  Mr.  Langham.  Per- 
haps some  other  day  you  will  come  and  make  friends  with  my 
mother?"  ^ 

CHAPTER  XXXn. 

Naturally,  it  was  during  their  two  months  of  autumn 
travel  that  Elsmere  and  Catherine  first  realized  in  detail  what 
Elsmere's  act  was  to  mean  to  them,  as  husband  and  wife,  in  the 
future.  Each  left  England  with  the  most  tender  and  heroic 
resolves.  And  no  one  who  knows  anything  of  life  will  need  to 
be  told  that  even  for  these  two  finely  natured  people  such  re- 
solves were  infinitely  easier  *to  make  than  to  carry  out. 

I  will  not  preach  to  you — I  will  not  persecute  you  !"  Cath- 
erine had  said  to  her  husband  at  the  moment  of  her  first  shock 
and  anguish.  And  she  did  her  utmost,  poor  thing,  to  keep  her 
word  !  All  through  the  innumerable  bitternesses  which  accom- 
panied Elsmere's  withdrawal  from  Murewell— the  letters  which 
followed  them,  the  remonstrances  of  pubhc  and  private  friends, 
the  paragraphs  which  found  their  way,  do  what  they  would,  into 
the  newspapers— the  pain  of  deserting,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  cer- 
tain poor  and  helpless  folk  who  had  been  taught  to  look  to  her 
and  Robert,  and  whose  bewildered  lamentations  came  to  them 
through  young  Armitstead— through  all  this  she  held  her  peace ; 
she  did  her  best  to  soften  Robert's  grief;  she  never  once  re- 
proached him  with  her  own. 

But  at  the  same  time  the  inevitable  separation  of  their  inmost 
hopes  and  beliefs  had  thrown  her  back  on  herself,  had  immense- 
ly strengthened  that  puritan  independent  fiber  in  her  which  her 
youth  had  developed,  and  which  her  happy  marriage  had  only 
temporarily  masked,  not  weakened.   Never  had  Catherine  be- 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


465 


lieved  so  strongly  and  intensely  as  now,  when  the  husband,  who 
had  been  the  guide  and  inspirer  of  her  religious  life,  had  given 
up  the  old  faith  and  practices.  By  virtue  of  a  kind  of  nervous 
instinctive  dread,  his  relaxations  bred  increased  rigidity  in  her. 
Often  when  she  was  alone— or  at  night — she  was  seized  with  a 
lonely,  an  awful  sense  of  responsibility.  Oh  !  let  her  guard 
her  faith,  not  only  for  her  own  sake,  her  child's,  her  Lord's, 
but  for  his— that  it  might  be  given  to  her  patience  at  last  to 
lead  him  back. 

And  the  only  way  in  which  it  seemed  to  her  possible  to  guard 
it  was  to  set  up  certain  barriers  of  silence.  She  feared  that 
fiery,  persuasive  quality  in  Robert  she  had  so  often  seen  at  ^ork 
on  other  people.  With  him  conviction  was  life — it  was  the  man 
himself,  to  an  extraordinary  degree.  How  was  she  to  resist  the 
pressure  of  these  new  ardors  with  which  his  mind  was  filling — 
she  who  loved  him  !— except  by  building,  at  any  rate  for  the 
time,  an  inclosure  of  silence  round  her  Christian  beliefs  ?  It 
was  in  some  ways  a  pathetic  repetition  of  the  situation  between 
Robert  and  the  squire  in  the  early  days  of  their  friendship,  but 
in  Catherine's  mind  there  was  no  troubling  presence  of  new 
knowledge  conspiring  from  within  with  the  forces  without.  At 
this  moment  of  her  life  she  was  more  passionately  convinced 
than  ever  that  the  only  knowledge  truly  worth  having  in  this 
world  was  the  knowledge  of  God's  mercies  in  Christ. 

So  gradually  vv^ith  a  gentle  persistency  she  withdrew  certain 
parts  of  herself  from  Robert's  ken ;  she  avoided  certain  subjects, 
or  anything  that  might  lead  to  them ;  she  ignored  the  rehgious 
and  philosophical  books  he  was  constantly  reading;  she  prayed 
and  thought  alone— always  of  him,  of  him — but  still  resolutely 
alone.  It  was  impossible,  however,  that  so  great  a  change  in 
their  life  could  be  effected  without  a  perpetual  sense  of  break- 
ing links,  a  perpetual  series  of  dumb  wounds  and  griefs  on  both 
sides.  There  came  a  moment  when,  as  he  sat  alone  one  even- 
ing in  a  pine  wood  above  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  Elsmere  suddenly 
awoke  to  the  conviction  that  in  spite  of  all  his  efforts  and  illu- 
sions, their  relation  to  each  other  was  altering,  dMndling,  im- 
poverishing: the  terror  of  that  summer  night  at  Murewell  was 
being  dismally  justified. 

His  own  mind  during  this  time  was  in  a  state  of  perpetual 
discovery  -  sailing  the  seas  where  there  was  never  sand"— the 
vast  shadowy  seas  of  speculative  thought.  All  his  life,  reserve 
to  those  nearest  to  him  had  been  pain  and  grief  to  him.  He 


466 


EOBEBT  ELSMERE. 


was  one  of  those  people,  as  we  know,  who  throw  off  readily;  to 
whom  sympathy,  expansion,  are  indispensable;  who  suffer  phys- 
ically and  mentally  from  anything  cold  and  rigid  beside  them. 
And  now,  at  every  turn,  in  their  talk,  their  reading,  in  many 
of  the  smallest  details  of  their  common  existence,  Elsmere  be- 
gan to  feel  the  presence  of  this  cold  and  rigid  something.  He 
was  ever  conscious  of  self-defense  on  her  side,  of  pained  draw- 
ing back  on  his.  And  with  every  succeeding  effort  of  liis  at 
self-repression,  it  seemed  to  him  as  though  fresh  nails  were 
driven  into  the  coffin  of  that  old  free  habit  of  perfect  confidence 
which  had  made  the  heaven  of  their  life  since  they  had  been 
man  and  wife. 

He  sat  on  for  long,  through  the  September  evening,  ponder 
ing,  wrestling.  Was  it  simply  inevitable,  the  natural  result  of 
his  own  act,  and  of  her  antecedents,  to  which  he  must  submit 
himself,  as  to  any  mutilation  or  loss  of  power  in  the  body?  The 
young  lover  and  husband  rebelled— the  beUever  rebelled— 
against  the  admission.  Probably  if  his  change  had  left  him 
anchorless  and  forsaken,  as  it  leaves  many  men,  he  would  have 
been  ready  enough  to  submit,  in  terror  lest  his  own  f orlomness 
should  bring  about  hers.  But  in  spite  of  the  intellectual  con- 
fusion, which  inevitably  attends  any  wholesale  reconstruction  of 
a  man's  platform  of  action,  he  had  "never  been  more  suro  of 
God,  or  the  Divine  aims  of  the  world,  than  now ;  never  more 
open  than  now,  amid  this  exquisite  Alpine  world,  to  those  pas- 
sionate moments  of  religious  trust  which  are  man's  eternal  de- 
fiance to  the  iron  silences  about  him.  Originally,  as  we  know, 
he  had  shrunk  from  the  thought  of  change  in  her  correspond- 
ing to  his  own ;  now  that  his  own  foothold  was  strengthening, 
his  longing  for  a  new  union  was  overpowering  that  old  dread. 
The  proselytizing  instinct  may  be  never  quite  morally  defensi- 
ble, even  as  between  husband  and  wife.  Nevertheless,  in  all 
strong,  convinced,  and  ardent  souls  it  exists,  and  must  be 
reckoned  with. 

At  last  one.  evening  he  was  overcome  by  a  sudden  impulse 
which  neutrahzed  for  the  momenf  his  nervous  dread  of  hurting 
her.  Some  little  incident  of  their  day  together  was  rankling, 
and  it  was  borne  in  upon  him  that  almost  any  violent  protest 
on  her  part  would  have  been  preferable  to  this  constant  soft 
evasion  of  hers,  which  was  gradually,  imperceptibly  dividing 
heart  from  heart. 

They  were  in  a  bare  attic  room  at  the  very  top  of  one  of  the 


EOBSRT  SLSMEB«. 


46» 


huge  newly  built  hotels  which  during  the  last  twenty  years  have 
invaded  all  the  high  places  of  Switzerland.    The  August  which 
had  been  so  hot  in  England  had  been  rainy  and  broken  in  Swit- 
zerland.  But  it  had  been  followed  by  a  warm  and  mellow  Sep- 
tember, and  the  favorite  hotels  below  a  certain  height  were  still 
full.   When  the  Elsmeres  arrived  at  Les  Avants,  this  scantily 
furnished  garret,  out  of  which  some  servants  had  been  hurried 
to  make  room  for  them,  was  all  that  could  be  found.  They, 
however,  liked  it  for  its  space  and  its  view.   They  looked  side- 
ways from  their  windows  on  to  the  upper  end  of  the  lake,  three 
thousand  feet  below  them.  Opposite,  across  the  blue  water,  rose 
a  grandiose  rampart  of  mountains,  the  stage  on  which  from 
morn  till  night  the  sun  went  through  a  long  transformation 
scene  of  beauty.   The  water  was  marked  every  now  and  then 
by  passing  boats  and  steamers—tiny  specks  which  served  to 
measure  the  vastness  of  all  around  them.   To  right  and  left, 
spurs  of  green  mountains  shut  out  alike  the  lower  lake  and  the 
icy  splendors  of  the  ^^Valais  depths  profound."  Whatmadethe 
charm  of  the  narrow  prospect  was,  first,  the  sense  it  produced 
in  the  spectator  of  hanging  dizzily  above  the  lake,  with  infinite 
air  below  him,  and,  then,  the  magical  effects  of  dawn  and  even- 
ing, when  wreaths  of  mist  would  blot  out  the  valley  and  the 
lake,  and  leave  the  eye  of  the  watcher  face  to  face  across  the 
fathomless  abyss  with  the  majestic  mountain  mass,  and  its  at- 
tendant retinue  of  clouds,  as  though  they  and  he  were  alone  in 
the  universe. 

It  was  a  peaceful  September  night.  From  the  open  window 
beside  him  Eobert  could  see  a  world  of  high  moonUght,  limited 
and  invaded  on  all  sides  by  sharp,  black  masses  of  shade.  A  few 
rare  lights  glimmered  on  the  spreading  alp  below,  and  every 
now  and  then  a  breath  of  music  came  to  them  wafted  from  a 
military  band  playing  a  mile  or  two  away.  They  had  been 
cHmbing  most  of  the  afternaon,  and  Catherine  was  lying  down, 
her  brown  hair  loose  about  her,  the  thin  oval  of  her  face  and 
clear  line  of  brow  just  visible  in  the  dim  candle-light. 

Suddenly  he  stretched  out  his  hand  for  his.Greek  Testament, 
which  was  always  near  him,  though  there  had  been  no  common 
reading  since  that  bitter  day  of  his  confession  to  her.  The  mark 
still  lay  in  the  well-worn  volume  at  the  point  reached  in  their 
last  reading  at  Murewell.  He  opened  upon  it,  and  began  the 
eleventh  chapter  of  St.  John.  i  tt 

Catherine  trembled  when  she    w  him  take  up  the  book.  He 


468 


ROBERT  ELSMEEE. 


began  without  preface,  treating  the  passage  before  him  in  his 
usual  way— that  is  to  say,  taking  verse  after  verse  in  the  Greek, 
translating  and  commenting.  She  never  spoke  all  through! 
and  at  last  he  closed  the  Httle  Testament,  and  bent  toward 
her,  his  look  full  of  feeling. 

Catherine!  can't  you  let  me— will  you  never  let  me  tell 
you,  now,  how  that  story— how  the  old  things— affect  me,  from 
the  new  point  of  view?  You  always  stop  me  when  I  try.  I 
believe  you  think  of  me  as  having  thrown  it  all  away.  Would 
it  not  comfort  you  sometimes,  if  you  knew  that  although  much 
of  the  Gospels,  this  very  raising  of  Lazainis,  for  instance,  seem 
to  me  no  longer  true  in  the  historical  sense,  still  they  are  always 
full  to  me  of  an  ideal,  a  poetical  truth?  Lazarus  may  not  have 
died  and  come  to  life,  may  never  have  existed;  but  still  to  me, 
now  as  always,  love  of  Jesus  for  Nazareth  is  'resurrection'  and 
Mife.'" 

He  spoke  with  the  most  painful  diffidence,  the  most  wistful 

tenderness. 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  Catherine  said,  in  a  rigid,  con- 
strained voice : 

If  the  Gospels  are  not  true  in  fact,  as  history,  as  reality,  I 
can  not  see  how  they  are  true  at  all,  or  of  any  value." 

The  next  minute  she  rose,  and  going  to  the  Httle  wooden 
dressing-table,  she  began  to  brush  out  and  plait  for  the  night 
her  straight,  silky  veil  of  hair.  As  she  passed  him  Robert  saw 
her  face  pale  and  set. 

He  sat  quiet  another  moment  or  two,  and  then  he  went  to- 
ward her  and  took  her  in  his  arms. 

4^  Catherine,"  he  said  to  her,  his  hps  trembhng,  ''am  I  never 
to  speak  my  mind  to  you  any  more?  Do  you  mean  always  to 
hold  me  at  arm's-length— to  refuse  always  to  hear  what  I  have 
to  say  in  defense  of  the  change  which  has  cost  us  both  so 
much?" 

She  hesitated,  trying  hard  to  restrain  herself.  But  it  was  of 
no  use.    She  broke  into  tears— quiet  but  most  bitter  tears. 

"  Eobert,  I  can  not!  Oh!  you  must  see  I  can  not.  It  is  not 
because  I  am  hard,  butJbecause  I  am  weak.  How  can  I  stand 
up  against  you?  I  dare  not— I  dare  not.  If  you  were  not 
yourself— not  my  husband—" 

Her  voice  dropped.  Robert  guessed  that  at  the  bottom  of 
her  resistance  there  was  an  mtolerable  fear  of  what  love  might 
do  with  her  if  she  once  gave  it  an  opening.   He  felt  himself 


ROBERT  ELSMERE, 


469 


cruel,  brutal,  and  yet  an  urgent  sense  of  all  that  was  at  stake 

drove  him  on.  ^  .  ,         .„  i 

'^I  would  not  press  or  worry  you,  God  knowsT'he  said, 
ulmost  piteously,  kissing  her  forehead  as  she  lay  against  him. 

But  remember,  Catherine,  I  can  not  put  these  things  aside. 
I  once  thought  I  could- that  I  could  fall  back  on  my  historical 
work  and  leave  religious  matters  alone  as  far  as  criticism  was 
concerned.  But  I  can  not.  They  fill  my  mind  more  and  more. 
I  feel  more  and  more  impelled  to  search  them  out,  and  to  put 
my  conclusions  about  them  into  shape.  And  all  the  time  this 
is  going  on,  are  you  and  I  to  remain  strangers  to  one  another 
in  all  that  concerns  our  truest  life— are  we,  Catherine?" 

He  spoke  in  a  low  voice  of  intense  feeling.  She  turned  her 
face  and  pressed  her  lips  to  his  hand.  Both  had  the  scene  in 
the  wood-path  after  her  flight  and  return  in  their  mmds,  and 
both  vfere  filled  with  a  despairing  sense  of  the  difficulty  of 
living,  not  through  great  crises,  but  through  the  details  of 

every  day.  ,        •        j  * 

Could  you  not  work  at  other  things?"  she  whispered. 
He  was  silent^  looking  straight  before  him  into  the  moon- 
light  shimmer  and  white  spectral  hazes  of  the  valley,  his  arms 

still  round  her.  ,  r. 

' '  No  1"  he  burst  out  at  last ;  '  *  not  till  I  have  satisfied  myself. 
I  feel  it  burning  within  me,  like  a  command  from  God,  to 
work  out  the  problem,  to  make  it  clearer  to  myseK-and  to 
others,"  he  added,  deliberately. 

Her  heart  sunk  within  her.  The  last  words  caUed  up  before 
her  a  dismal  future  of  controversy  and  publicity,  in  which  at 
every  step  she  would  be  condemning  her  husband. 

And  all  this  time,  all  these  years,  perhaps,"  he  went  on— 
before,  in  her  perplexity,  she  would  find  words-'' is  my  wife 
never  going  to  let  me  speak  freely  to  her?  Am  I  to  act,  think, 
iudge  without  her  knowledge?  Is  she  to  know  less  of  me 
than  a  friend,  less  even  than  the  public  for  whom  I  write  or 
sneak?" 

It  seemed  intolerable  to  him,  all  the  more  that  every  moment 
they  stood  there  together  it  was  being  impressed  upon  him 
that  in  fact  this  was  what  she  meant,  what  she  had  contem- 
plated from  the  beginning. 
"Eobert,  I  can  not  defend  myself  agamst  you,  she  cri^d 
ain  clinging  to  him.  ' '  Oh,  think  for  me !  _  You  know  what 
feel;  that  I  dare  not  risk  what  is  not  mmel 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


He  kissed  her  again,  and  then  moved  away  from  her  to  the 
window.  It  began  to  be  plain  to  him  that  his  effort  was  mere- 
ly futile  and  had  better  not  have  been  made.  But  his  heart 
was  very  sore. 

''Do  you  ever  ask  yourself,"  he  said,  presently,  looking 
steadily  into  the  night—''  no,  I  don't  think  you  can,  Catherine 
—what  part  the  reasoning  faculty,  that  faculty  which  marks 
us  out  from  the  animal,  was  meant  to  play  in  Hfe?  Did  God 
give  it  to  us  simply  that  you  might  trample  upon  it  and  ignore 
it,  both  in  yourself  and  me?" 

She  had  dropped  into  a  chair,  and  sat  with  clasped  hands, 
her  hair  falling  about  her  white  dressing  gown,  and  framing 
the  nobly  featured  face  blanched  by  the  moonlight.  She  did 
not  attempt  a  reply,  but  the  melancholy  of  an  invincible  reso- 
lution, which  was,  so  to  speak,  not  her  own  doing,  but  rather 
was  hke  a  necessity  imposed  upon  her  from  outside,  breathed 
through  her  silence. 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her.  She  raised  her  arms,  and  the 
gesture  reminded  him  for  a  moment  of  the  Donatella  figure  in 
the  Murewell  library— the  same  delicate,  austere  beauty,  the 
same  tenderness,  the  same  underlying  reserve.  He  took  her 
outstretched  hands  and  held  them  against  his  breast.  His  hotly 
beating  heart  told  film  that  he  was  perfectly  right,  and  that  to 
accept  the  barriers  she  was  setting  up  would  impoverish  all 
their  future  Mfe  together:  But  he  could  not  struggle  with  the 
woman  on  whom  he  had  already  inflicted  so  severe  a  practical 
trial.  Moreover,  he  felt  strangely  as  he  stood  there  the  danger 
of  rousing  in  her  those  ilhmitable  possibilities  of  the  rehgious 
temper,  the  dread  of  which  had  once  before  risen  specter-hke 
in  his  heart. 

So  once  more  he  yielded.  She  rewarded  him  with  all  the 
charm,  all  the  deUghtfulness,  of  which  under  the  circumstances 
she  was  mistress.  They  wandered  up  the  Rhone  valley,  through 
the  St.  Gothard,  and  spent  a  fortnight  between  Como  and  Lu- 
gano. During  these  days  her  one  thought  was  to  revive  and 
refresh  him,  and  he  let  her  tend  him,  and  lent  himself  to  the 
various  heroic  futilities  by  which  she  would  try— as  part  of  her 
nursing  mission— to  make  the  future  look  less  empty  and  their 
distress  less  real.  Of  course  under  all  this  dehcate  give  and 
take  both  suffered :  both  felt  that  the  promise  of  their  marriage 
had  failed  them,  and  that  they  had  come  dismally  down  to  sec- 
ond best.   But  after  all  they  were  young,  and  the  autumn  was 


EOBEET  ELSMERE. 


m 


beautiful— and  though  they  hurt  each  other,  they  were  alone 
together  and  constantly,  passionately,  interested  in  each  other. 
Italy,  too,  softened  all  things— even  Catherine's  English  tone 
and  temper.  As  long  as  the  delicious  luxury  of  the  Italian 
autumn,  with  all  its  primitive  pagan  suggestiveness,  was  still 
round  them ;  as  long  as  they  were  still  among  the  cities  of  the 
Lombard  plain— that  battle-ground  and  highway  of  nations^ 
which  roused  all  Eobert's  historical  enthusiasm,  and  set  him 
reading,  discussing,  thinking,  in  his  old  impetuous  way,  about 
something  else  than  minute  problems  of  Christian  evidence— 
the  new-born  friction  between  them  was  necessarily  reduced  to 
a  minimum. 

But  with  their  return  home,  with  their  plunge  into  London 
life,  the  difficulties  of  the  situation  began  to  define  themselves 
more  sharply.  In  after  years,  one  of  Catherine's  dearest 
memories  was  the  memory  of  their  first  installment  in  the  Bed- 
ford Square  house.  Robert's  anxiety  to  make  it  pleasant  and 
home-like  was  pitiful  to  watch.  He  had  none  of  the  modern 
passion  for  upholstery,  and  probably  the  vaguest  notions  of 
what  was  aesthetically  correct.  But  during  their  furnishing  days 
he  was  never  tired  of  wandering  about  in  search  of  pretty  things 
—a  rug,  a  screen,  an  engraving— which  mi2:ht  brighten  th^ 
<-ooms  in  which  Catherine  was  to  live.  He  would  pub  every- 
thing in  its  place  with  a  restless  eagerness,  and  then  Catherine 
would  bej3alled  in,  and  would  play  her  part  bravely.  She  would 
smile  and  ask  questions,  and  admire,  and  then  when  Eobert 
had  gone,  she  v/ould  move  slowly  to  the  window  and  look  out 
at  the  great  mass  of  the  British  Museum  frowning  beyond  the 
little  dingy  strip  of  garden,  with  a  sick  longing  in  her  heart  for 
the  Mure  well  corn-field,  the  wood-path,  the  village,  the  free  air- 
bathed  spaces  of  heath  and  common.  Oh  I  this  huge  London, 
with  its  unfathomable  poverty  and  its  heartless  wealth— ho  wit 
om)ressed  and  bewildered  her !  Its  mere  grime  and  squalor,  its 
murky  poisoned  atmosphere,  were  a  perpetual  trial  to  the  coun- 
trywoman brought  up  amid  the  dash  of  mountain  streams  and 
the  scents  of  mountain  pastures.  She  drooped  physically  for 
a  time,  as  did  the  child. 

But  morally?  Witji  Catherine  everything  really  depended 
on  the  moral  state.  She  could  have  followed  Robert  to  a  Lon- 
don living  with  a  joy  and  hope  which  would  have  completely 
deadened  all  these  repulsions  of  the  senses  now  so  active  in  her. 


472 


ROBERT  ELSMERlD. 


But  without  this  inner  glow,  in  the  presence  of  the  profound 
spiritual  difference  circumstance  had  developed  between  her  and 
the  man  she  loved,  everything  was  a  burden.  Even  her  religion, 
though  she  clung  to  it  with  an  ever-increasing  tenacity,  Mled 
at  this  period  to  bring  her  much  comfort.  Every  night  it 
seemed  to  her  that  the  day  had  been  one  long  and  dreary 
struggle  to  make  something  out  of  nothing;  and  in  the  morn- 
ing  the  night,  too,  seemed  to  have  been  alive  with  conflict— 
All  Thy  leaves  and  Thy  storms  have  gone  over  me! 

Robert  guessed  it  all,  and  whatever  remorseful  love  could  do 
to  soften  such  a  strain  and  burden  he  tried  to  do.  He  encour- 
aged her  to  find  work  among  the  poor ;  he  tried  in  the  tenderest 
ways  to  interest  her  in  the  great  spectacle  of  London  life  which 
was  already,  in  spite  of  yearning  and  regret,  beginning  to  fasci- 
nate and  absorb  himself.  But  their  standards  were  now  so 
different  that  she  was  constantly  shrinking  from  what  attracted 
him,  "or  painfully  judging  what  was  to  him  merely  curious  and 
interesting.  He  was  really  more  and  more  oppressed  by  her 
intellectual  limitations,  though  never  consciously  would  he 
have  allowed  himself  to  admit  them,  and  she  was  more  and 
more  bewildered  by  what  constantly  seemed  to  her  a  breaking- 
up  of  principle,  a  relaxation  of  moral  fiber. 

And  fche  work  among  the  poor  was  difficult.  Robert  instinct- 
*  ively  felt  that  for  him  to  offer  his  services  in  charitable  work  to 
the  narrow  Evangelical,  whose  church  Catherine  had  joined, 
would  have  been  merely  to  invite  rebuff.  So  that  even  in  the 
love  and  care  of  the  unfortunate  they  were  separated.  For  he 
had  not  yet  found  a  sphere  of  work,  and,  if  he  had,  Catherine's 
invincible  impulse  in  these  matters  was  always  to  attach  herself 
to  the  authorities  and  powers  that  be.  He  could  only  acquiesce 
when  she  suggested  applying  to  Mr.  Clarendon  for  some  char- 
itable occupation  for  herself. 

After  her  letter  to  him,  Catherine  had  an  interview  with  the 
vicar  at  his  home.  She  was  puzzled  by  the  start  and  sudden 
pause  for  recollection  with  which  he  received  her  name,  the 
tone  of  compassion  which  crept  into  his  talk  with  her,  the  pity- 
ing look  and  grasp  of  the  hand  with  which  he  dismissed  her. 
Then,  as  she  walked  home,  it  flashed  upon  her  that  she  had 
seen  a  copy,  some  weeks  old,  of  the  "Record"  lying  on, the 
good  man's  table,  the  very  copy  which  contained  Robert's 
name  among  the  list  of  men  who  durin^r  the  last  ten  yeai'^  had 
thrown  up  ihe  Ang£ican  mmistiry.   '£he  delicate  fape  fluslici* 


ROBERT  ELSMBRE. 


473 


miserably  from  brow  to  chin.  Pitied  for  being  Eobert's  wife! 
Oh,  monstrous !— incredible ! 

Meanwhile  Eobert,  man-like,  in  spite  of  all  the  griefs  and 
sorenessis  of  the  position,  had  immeasurably  the  b6st  of  it.  In 
-  the  first  place  such  incessant  activity  of  mind  as  his  is  in  itself 
both  tonic  and  narcotic.  It  was  constantly  generating  in  him 
fresh  purposes  and  hopes,  constantly  deadening  regret,  and 
pushing  the  old  things  out  of  sight.  He  was  full  of  many  pro- 
jects, literary  and  social,  but  they  were  all  in  truth  the  fruits 
of  one  long  experimental  process,  the  passionate  attempt  of  the 
reason  to  justify  to  itself  the  God  in  whom  the  heart  believed. 
Abstract  thought,  as  Mr.  Grey  saw,  had  had  comparatively  lit- 
tle to  do  with  Elsmere's  relinquishment  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land. But  as  soon  as  the  Christian  bases  of  faith  were  over- 
thrown, that  faith  had  naturally  to  find  for  itself  other  supports 
and  attachments.  For'  faith  itself— in  God  and  a  spiritual 
order— had  been  so  wrought  into  the  nature  by  years  of  rever- 
ent and  adoring  living  that  nothing  could  destroy  it.  Y\rith 
Elsmere,  as  with  all  men  of  religious  temperament,  belief  in 
Christianity  and  faith  in  God  had  not  at  the  outset  been  a  mat- 
ter of  reasoning  at  all,  but  of  sympathy,  feeling,  association, 
daily  experience.  Then  the  intellect  had  broken  in,  and  de- 
stroyed or  transformed  the  belief  in  Christianity.  But  after  the 
crash,  faith  emerged  as  strong  as  ever,  only  craving  and  eager 
to  make  a  fresh  peace,  a  fresh  compact  with  the  reason. 

Elsmere  had  heard  Grey  say  long  ago  in  one  of  the  few  mo- 
ments of  real  intimacy  he  had  enjoyed  with  him  at  Oxford, 
''My  interest  iii  philosophy  springs  solely  from  the  chance  it 
ofters  me  o£  knowing  something  more  of  God !"  Driven  by  the 
same  thirst,  he  too  threw  himself  into  the  same  quest,  pushing 
his  way  laboriously  through  the  philosophical  borderlands  of 
science,  through  the  ethical  speculation  of  the  day,  through  the 
history  ot  man's  moral  and  religious  past.  And  while  on  the 
one  hand  the  intellect  was  able  to  contribute  an  ever-stronger 
support  to  the  faith  which  was  the  man,  on  the  other  sphere  in 
him  of  a  patient  ignorance  which  abstains  from  all  attempts  at 
knowing  what  man  can  not  know,  and  substitutes  trust  for 
either  knowledge  or  despair,  was  perpetually  widening.  "I 
take  my  stand  on  conscience  and  the  moral  life!''  was  the  up- 
shot of  it  all.  ''In  them  I  find  my  God!  As  for  all  these 
various  problem?,  ethical  and  scientific,  which  you  press  upon 
me,  my  pessimist  friend,  I,  too,  am  bewildered;  I,  too,  have 


474 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


no  explanation  to  offer.  But  I  trust  and  wait.  In  spite  of 
them— beyond  them— I  have  abundantly  enough  for  faith— for 

hope-  for  action !" 

We  may  quote  a  passage  or  two  from  some  letters  of  his  writ- 
ten at  this  time  to  that  young  Armitstead  who  had  taken  his 
place  at  Murewell,  and  was  still  there  till  Mowbray  Elsmere 
should  appoint  a  new  man.  Armitstead  had  been  a  college 
friend  of  Elsmere's.  He  was  a  High  Churchman  of  a  singu- 
larly gentle  and  delicate  type,  and  the  manner  in  which  he  had 
received  Elsmere's  story  on  the  day  of  his  arrival  at  Murewell 
had  permanently  endeared  him  to  the  teller  of  it.  At  the  same 
time  the  defection  from  Christianity  of  a  man  who  at  Oxford 
had  been  to  him  the  object  of  much  hero-worship,  and,  since 
Oxford,  an  example  of  pastoral  efficiency,  had  painfully  affect- 
ed young  Armitstead,  and  he  began  a  correspondence  with  Rob- 
ert which  was  in  many  ways  a  relief  to  both.  In  Switzerland 
and  Italy,  when  his  wife's  gentle  inexorable  silence  became  too 
oppressive  to  him,  Robert  would  pour  himself  out  in  letters  to 
Armitstead,  and  the  correspondence  did  not  altogether  cease 
with  his  return  to  London.  To  the  squire  during  the  same 
period  Elsmere  also  wrote  frequently,  but  rarely  or  never  on 
religious  matters. 

On  one  occasion  Armitstead  had  been  pressing  the  favorite 
Christian  dilemma— Christianity  or  nothing.  Inside  Christian- 
ity, light  and  certainty;  outside  it,  chaos.  "  If  it  were  not  for 
the  Gospels  and  the  Church  I  should  be  a  Positivist  to-morrow. 
Your  Theism  is  a  mere  arbitrary  hypothesis,  at  the  mercy  of 
any  rival  philosophical  theory.  'How,  regarding  our  position 
as  precarious,  you  should  come  to  regard  your  own  as  stable, 
is  to  me  incomprehensible !" 

What  I  conceive  to  be  the  vital  difference  between  Theism 
and  Christianity,"  wrote  Elsmere  in  reply,  *'is  that  as  an  ex- 
planation of  things  Theism  can  never  he  disproved.  At  the 
worst  it  must  always  remain  in  the  position  of  an  alternative 
hypothesis,  which  the  hostile  man  of  science  can  not  destroy, 
though  he  is  under  no  obligation  to  adopt  it.  Broadly  speak- 
ing, it  is  not  the  facts  which  are  in  dispute,  but  the  inference 
to  be  drawn  from  them. 

**Now,  considering  the  enormous  complication  of  the  facts, 
the  Tbeistic  inference  will,  to  put  it  at  the  lowest,  always  have 
its  place,  always  command  respect.   Th©  nxan  of  science  may 


KOBERT  ELSMERE. 


475 


not  adopt  it,  but  by  no  advance  of  science  that  I,  at  any  rate, 
can  forsee,  can  it  be  driven  out  of  the  field. 

Christianity  is  in  a  totally  different  position.  Its  grounds 
are  not  philosophical  but  literary  and  historical.  It  rests  not 
upon  all  facts,  but  upon  a  special  group  of  facts.  It  is,  and 
will  always  remain,  a  great  literary  and  historical  problem,  a 
question  of  documents  and  testimony.  Hence,  the  Christian 
explanation  is  vulnerable  in  a  way  in  which  the  Theistic  ex- 
planation can  never  be  vulnerable.  The  contention,  at  any 
rate,  of  persons  in  my  position  is:  That  to  the  man  who  has 
had  the  special  training  required,  emd  in  whom  this  training 
has  not  been  neutralized  by  any  overwhelming  bias  of  tempera- 
ment, it  can  be  as  clearly  demonstrated  that  the  miraculous 
Christian  story  rests  on  a  tissue  of  mistake,  as  it  can  be  demon- 
strated that  the  Isidorian  Decretals  were  a  forgery,  or  the  cor- 
respondence of  Paul  and  Seneca  a  pious  fraud,  or  that  the 
mediaeval  beliei  in  witchcraft  was  the  product  of  physical  igno- 
rance and  superstition." 

You  say,"  he  wrote  again,  in  another  connection,  to  Armit- 
stead  from  Milan,  *'you  say  you  think  my  later  letters  have 
been  far  too  aggressive  and  positive.  I,  too,  am  astonished  at 
myself.  I  do  not  know  my  own  mood,  it  is  so  clear,  so  sharp, 
so  combative.  Is  it  the  spectacle  of  Italy,  I  wonder— of  a  coun- 
try practically  without  religion— the  spectacle  in  fact  of  Latin 
Europe  as  a  whole,  and  the  practical  Atheism  in  which  it  is  in- 
gulfed? My  dear  friend,  the  problem  of  the  world  at  this  mo- 
ment is— how  to  find  a  religion  f — some  great  conception  which 
shall  be  once  more  capable,  as  the  old  were  capable,  of  welding 
societies,  and  keeping  man's  brutist  elements  in  check.  Surely 
Christianity  of  the  traditional  sort  is  failing  everywhere— less 
obviously  with  us,  and  in  Teutonic  Europe  generally,  but 
egregiously,  notoriously,  in  all  the  Catholic  countries.  We  talk 
complacently  of  the  decline  of  Buddhism.  But  what  have  we 
to  say  of  the  deelii.e  of  Christianity?  And  yet  this  last  is  in- 
finitely more  striking  and  more  tragic,  inasmuch  as  it  affects  a 
more  important  section  of  mankind.  I,  at  any  rate,  am  not  one 
of  those  who  would  seek  to  minimize  the  results  of  this  decline 
for  human  life,  nor  can  I  bring  myself  to  believe  that  Positiv- 
ism or  '  evolutional  morality '  will  ever  satisfy  the  race. 

In  the  period  of  social  struggle  which  undeniably  lies  before 
us,  both  in  the  old  and  the  new  world,  are  we  then  to  witness  a 
war  of  classes,  unsoftened  by  the  ideal  hopes,  the  ideal  law,  of 


476 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


faith?  It  looks  like  it.  What  does  the  artisan  class,  what  does 
the  town  democracy  throughout  Europe,  care  any  longer  for 
Christian  checks  or  Okristian  sanctions  as  they  have  been  taught 
to  understand  them?  Superstition,  in  certain  parts  of  rural 
Europe,  there  is  in  plenty,  but  wherever  you  get  intelligence 
and  therefore  movement,  you  get  at  once  either  indifference  to, 
or  a  passionate  break  with,  Christianity.  And  consider  what  it 
means,  what  it  will  mean,  this  Atheism  of  the  great  democracies 
which  are  to  be  our  masters !  The  world  has  never  seen  any- 
thing like  it ;  such  spiritual  anarchy  and  poverty  combined  with 
such  material  power  and  resource.  Every  society — Christian 
and  non-Christian — has  always  till  now  had  its  ideal,  of  greater 
or  less  ethical  value,  its  appeal  to  something  beyond  man.  Has 
Christianity  brought  us  to  this:  that  the  Christian  nations  are 
to  be  the  first  in  the  world's  history  to  try  the  experiment  of  a 
life  without  faith — that  life  which  you  and  I,  at  any  rate,  are 
agreed  in  thinking  a  life  worthy  only  of  the  brute? 

Oh,  forgive  me !  These  things  must  hurt  you — ^they  would 
have  hurt  me  in  old  days— but  they  burn  within  me,  and  you 
bid  me  speak  out.  What  if  it  be  God  Himself  who  is  driving 
His  painful  lesson  home  to  me,  to  you,  to  the  world?  What 
does  it  mean,  this  gradual  growth  of  what  we  call  infidelity,  of 
criticism  and  science  on  the  one  hand,  this  gradual  death  of  the 
old  traditions  on  the  other?  Sin^  you  answer,  the  enmity  of  the 
human  mind  against  God,  the  momentary  triumph  of  Satan. 
And  so  you  acquiesce,  heavy-hearted,  in  G-od's  present  defeat, 
looking  for  vengeance  and  requital  hereafter.  Well,  I  am  not 
so  ready  to  believe  in  man's  capacity  to  rebel  against  his  Maker ! 
Where  you  see  ruin  and  sin,  I  see  the  urgent  process  of  Divine 
education.  God's  steady  ineluctable  command  *^to  put  away 
childish  things,"  the  pressure  of  His  spirit  on  ours  toward  new 
ways  of  worship  and  new  forms  of  love !" 

And  after  awhile,  it  was  with  these  *^new  ways  of  worship 
and  new  forms  of  love"  that  the  mind  began  to  be  perpetually 
occupied.  The  break  with  the  old  things  was  no  sooner  com- 
plete than  the  eager  soul,  incapable  then,  as  always,  of  resting 
in  negation  or  opposition,  pressed  passionately  forward  to  a  nev/ 
synthesis,  not  only  speculative,  but  practical.  Before  it  rose 
perpetually  the  haunting  vision  of  another'  palace  of  faith — an- 
other church  or  company  of  the  faithful,  which  was  to  become 
the  shelter  of  human  aspiration  amid  the  desolation  and  anarchy 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


411 


caused  by  the  crashing  of  the  old !  Hov/  many  men  and  women 
must  have  gone  through  the  same  strait  as  itself—how  many 
must  be  watching  with  it  through  the  darkness  for  the  rising 
of  a  new  City  of  God ! 

One  afternoon,  close  upon  Christmas,  he  found  himself  in 
Parliament  Square,  on  his  way  toward  Westminster  Bridge 
and  the  Embankment.  The  beauty  of  a  sunset  sky  behind  the 
abbey  arrested  him,  and  he  stood  leaning  over  the  railings 
beside  the  Peel  statue  to  look. 

The  day  before  he  had  passed  the  same  spot  with  a  German 
friend.  His  companion— a  man  of  influence  and  mark  in  his 
own  country,  who  had  been  brought  up,  however,  in  England, 
and  knew  it  well— had  stopped  before  the  abbey  and  had  said 
to  him  with  emphasis:  ^' I  never  find  myself  in  this  particular 
spot  of  London  without  a  sense  of  emotion  and  reverence. 
Other  people  feel  that  in  treading  the  Foram  of  Eome  they  are 
at  the  center  of  human  things.  I  am  more  thrilled  by  West- 
minster than  Eome ;  your  venerable  abbey  is  to  me  the  symbol 
of  a  nationality  to  which  the  modern  world  owes  obligations 
it  can  never  repay.  You  are  rooted  deep  in  the  past ;  you  have 
also  a  future  of  infinite  expansiveness  stretching  before  you. 
Among  European  nations  at  this  moment  you  alone  have  free- 
dom in  the  true  sense,  you  alone  have  religion.  I  would  give 
a  year  of  life  to  know  what  you  will  have  made  of  your  free- 
dom and  your  religion  two  hundred  years  hence !" 

As  Robert  recalled  the  words,  the  abbey  lay  before  him, 
wrapped  in*  the  bluish  haze  of  the  inter  afternoon.  Only  the 
towers  rose  out  of  the  mist,  gray  and  black  against  the  red 
bands  of  cloud.  A  pair  of  pigeons  circled  round  them,  as  care- 
less and  free  in  flight  as  though  they  were  alone  with  the 
towers  and  the  sunset.  Below,  the  streets  were  full  of  people ; 
the  omnibuses  rolled  to  and  fro;  the  lamps  were  just  lighted; 
lines  of  straggling  figures,  dark  in  the  half  light,  were  crossing 
the  street  here  and  there.  And  to  all  the  human  rush  and  swirl 
below,  the  quiet  of  the  abbey  and  the  infinite  red  distances  of 
sky  gave  a  peculiar  pathos  and  significance. 

Eobert  filled  his  eye  and  sense,  and  then  walked  quickly 
away  toward  the  Embankment.  Carrying  the  poetry  and 
grandeur  of  England's  past  with  him,  he  turned  his  face  east- 
ward to  the  great  new-made  London  on  the  other  side  of  St. 
Paul's,  the  London  of  the  democracy,  ol:'  the  nineteenth  cent- 
ury 3  and  of  the  future.    He  was  wrestling  vv^ith  himself,  a  prey 


478 


ROBERT  ELSMEEE.  , 


to  one  of  those  critical  moments  of  life,  when  circumstance 

seems  once  more  to  restore  to  us  the  power  of  choice,  of  dis- 
tributing a  Yes  or  a  No  among  the  great  solicitations  which 
meet  the  humaa  spirit  on  its  path  from  silence  to  silence.  The 
thought  of  his  friend's  reverence,  and  of  his  own  personal  debt 
toward  the  country  to  whose  long  travail  of  centuries  he  owed 
all  his  own  joys  and  faculties,  was  hot  within  him. 

Here  and  here  did  England  lielp|me — how  can  I  help  England, — say!" 

Ah !  that  vast  chaotic  London  south  and  east  of  the  great 
church  1  He  already  knew  something  of  it.  A  Liberal  clergy- 
man there,  settled  in  the  very  blackest,  busiest  heart  of  it,  had 
already  made  him  welcome  on  Mr.  Grey's  introduction.  He 
had  gone  with  this  good  man  on  several  occasions  through 
some  little  fraction  of  that  teeming  world,  now  so  hidden  and 
peaceful  between  the  murky  river  mists  and  the  cleaner,  Hght- 
filled  grays  of  the  sky.  He  had  heard  much,  and  pondered  a 
good  deal,  the  quick  mind  caught  at  once  by  the  differences, 
some  tragic,  some  merely  curious  and  stimulating,  between 
the  monotonous  life  of  his  own  rural  folk,  and  the  mad  rush, 
the  voracious  hurry,  the  bewildering  appearances  and  disap- 
pearances, the  sudden  ingulf  ments,  of  working  London. 

Moreover,  he  had  spent  a  Sunday  or  two  wandering  among 
the  East  End  churches.  There,  rather  than  among  the  streets 
and  courts  outside,  as  it  had  seemed  to  him,  lay  the  tragedy  of 
the  city.  Such  emptiness,  such  desertion,  such  a  hopeless 
breach  between  the  great  craving  need  outside  and  the  boon 
offered  it  within !  Here  and  there,  indeed,  a  patch  of  bright- 
colored  success,  as  it  claimed  to  be,  where  the  primitive  tend- 
ency of  man  toward  the  organized  excitement  of  religious 
ritual,  visible  in  all  nations  and  civilizations,  had  been  appealed 
to  with  more  energy  and  more  results  than  usual.  But  in  gen- 
eral, blank  failure,  or  rather  obvious  want  of  success— as  the 
devoted  men  now  beating  the  void  there  were  themselves  the 
first  to  admit,  with  pain  and  patient  submission  to  the  inscruta- 
ble Will  of  God. 

Bill  is  it  not  time  we  assured  ourselves,  he  was  always  ask- 
ing, whether  God  is  still  in  truth  behind  the  offer  man  is  per- 
petu  lily  making  to  his  brother  man  on  His  behalf  ?  He  was 
behind  it  once,  and  it  had  eflScacy,  had  power.  But  now— 
what  if  all  these  processes  of  so  called  destruction  and  decay 
were  but  the  mere  workings  of  that  divine  plastic  force  which 


js  fore^rer  molding  human  society  ?  What  if  these  beautiful, 
venerable  things  which  had  fallen  from  him,  as  from  thousands 
of  his  fellows,  represented,  in  the  present  stage  of  the  world's 
history,  not  the  props,  but  the  hindrances,  of  man  ? 

And  if  aU  these  large  things  were  true,  as  he  believed,  what 
should  be  the  individual's  part  in  this  transition  in  England? 
Surely,  at  the  least,  a  part  of  plain  sincerity  of  act  and  speech 
—a  correspondence  as  perfect  as  could  be  reached  between  the 
inner  faith  and  the  outer  word  and  deed.  So  much,  at  the 
least,  was  clearly  required  of  him ! 

*^Do  not  imagine,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  though  with  a 
fierce  dread  of  possible  self  delusion,  ''that  it  is  in  you  to  play 
any  great,  any  commanding  part.  Shun  the  thought  of  it,  if 
it  were  possible !  But  let  me  do  what  is  given  me  to  do !  Here, 
in  this  human  wilderness,  may  I  spend  whatever  of  time  or 
energy  or  faculty  may  be  mine,  in  the  faithful  attempt  to  help 
forward  the  new  House  of  Faith  that  is  to  be,  though  my  ut- 
most efforts  should  b^t  succeed  in  laying  some  obscure  stone  in 
still  unseen  foundations !  Let  me  try  and  hand  on  to  some 
other  human  soul,  or  souls,  before  I  die,  the  truth  which  has 
freed,  and  which  is  now  sustaining,  my  own  heart.  Can,  any 
man  do  more?  Is  not  every  man  who  feels  any  certainty  in 
him  whatever  bound  to  do  as  much?  What  matter  if  the  wise 
folk  scoff,  if  even  at  times,  and  in  a  certain  sense,  one  seems  to 
one's  self  ridiculous— absurdly  lonely  and  powerless !  All  great 
changes  are  preceded  by  numbers  of  sporadic,  and  as  the  by- 
stander thinks,  impotent  efforts.  But  while  the  individual 
effort  sinks,  drowned  perhaps  in  mockery,  the  general  move- 
iD^snii  quickens,  gath,ers  force  we  know  not  how,  and: 

"  While  the  tired  wave  vainly  breaking. 
Seems  here  no  painful  inch  to  gain, 
Far  back  through  creeks  and  inlets  making. 
Comes  silent,  flooding  in  the  main!" 

Darkness  sunk  over  the  river;  all  the  gray  and  purple  dis- 
tance with  its  dim  edge  of  spires  and  domes  against  the  sky,  all 
the  vague,  intervening  blackness  of  street,  or  bridge,  or  rail- 
way station  were  starred  and  patterned  with  lights.  The  vast- 
ness,  the  beauty  of  the  city  filled  him  with  a  sense  of  my  terious 
attraction,  and  as  he  walked  on  with  his  face  uplifted  to  it,  it 
was  as  though  he  took  his  life  in  his  hand  and  flung  it  afresh 
into  the  human  gulf  . 


480  ROBERT  ELSMERB. 

''What  does  it  matter  if  one's  work  be  raw  and  uncomeljli  r 
All  that  lies  outside  the  great  organized  traditions  of  an  age  j 
must  always  look  so.   Let  me  bear  my  witness  bravely,  not!  ^ 
spending  life  in  speech,  but  not  undervaluing  speech— above  , 
all,  not  being  ashamed  or  afraid  of  it,  because  otherwise  people  ' 
may  prefer  a  policy  of  silence.   A  man  has  but  the  one  puny 
life,  the  one  tiny  spark  of  faith.    Better  be  venturesome  with 
both  for  God's  sake,  than  overcautious,  overthrifty.   And— to 
his  own  Master  he  standeth  or  falleth !" 

Plans  of  work  of  all  kinds,  literary  and  practical,  thoughts 
of  preaching  in  some  bare  hidden  room  to  men  and  women 
orphaned  and  stranded  like  himself,  began  to  crowd  upon  him. 
The  old  clerical  instinct  in  him  winced  at  some  of  them.  Bob- 
ert  had  nothing  of  the  sectary  about  him  by  nature ;  he  was  * 
always  too  deeply  and  easily  affected  by  the  great  historic  ex*:  ^ 
istences  about  him.    But  when  the  Oxford  man  or  the  ex-offi-1 
cial  of  one  of  the  most  venerable  and  decorous  of  societies 
protested,  the  behever,  or,  if  you  will,  the  enthusiast,  put  the'  * 
protest  by. 

And  so  the  dream  gathered  substance  and  stayed  with  him, 
till  at  last  he  found  himself  at  his  own  door.  As  he  closed  it  ' 
behind  him,  Catherine  came  out  into  the  pretty  old  hall  fronjj 
the  dining  room. 

*'Eobert,  have  you  walked  all  the  way?" 

**Yes.  I  came  along  the  Embankment.  Such  a  beautiful, 
evening !" 

He  slipped  his  arm  inside  hers,  and  they  mounted  the  stairs^ 
together.  She  glanced  at  him  wistfully.  She  was  perfectly; 
aware  that  these  nibnths  were  to  him  months  of  incessant 
travail  of  spirit,  and  she  caught  at  this  moment  the  old  strenu 
ous  look  of  eye  and  brow  she  knew  so  well.  A  year  ago,  and 
every  thought  of  his  mind  had  been  open  to  her— and  now— she 
herself  had  shut  them  out— but  her  heart  sunk  within  her. 

She  turned  and  kissed  him.  He  bent  his  head  fondly  over 
her.  But  inwardly  all  the  ardor  of  his  mood  collapsed  at  the 
touch  of  her.  For  the  protests  of  a  world  in  arms  can  be  witb 
stood  with  joy,  but  the  protest  that  steals  into  your  heart,  thaJi 
takes  love's  garb  and  uses  love's  wsijs— there  is  the  difficulty! 


I 


BOBSBT  JSLSMBBB. 


481 


CHAPTER  XXXm. 

i 

I    But  Robert  was  some  time  in  finding  his  opening,  in  realiz- 
I  ing  any  fraction  of  his  dream.   At  first  he  tried  to  work  under 
the  Broad  Church  vicar  to  whom  Grey  had  introduced  him.  He 
undertook  some  rent-collecting,  and  some  evening  lectures  on 
elementary  science  to  boys  and  men.   But  after  awhile  he 
I  began  to  feel  his  position  false  and  unsatisfactory.   In  truth, 
i  his  opinions  were  in  the  main  identical  with  those  of  the  vicar 
under  whom  he  was  acting.   But  Mr.  Vernon  was  a  Broad 
Churchman,  belonged  to  the  Church  Reform  movement,  and 
thought  it  absolutely  necesary  to  "keep  things  going,"  and  by 
a  policy  of  prudent  silence  and  gradual  expansion  from  within, 
to  save  the  great    plant"  of  the  Establishment  from  falling 
\  wholesale  into  the  hands  of  the  High  Churchmen.   In  conse- 
I  quence  he  was  involved,  as  Robert  held,  in  endless  contradic- 
i  tions  and  practical  falsities  of  speech  and  action.   His  large 
church  was  attended  by  a  handful  of  some  fifty  to  a  hundred 
persons.   Vernon  could  not  preach  what  he  did  believe,  and 
would  not  preach,  more  than  was  absolutely  necessary,  what 
|  he  did  not  believe.   He  was  hard- working  and  kind-hearted, 
but  the  perpetual  divorce  between  thought  and  action,  which 
his  position  made  inevitable,  was  constantly  blunting  and 
I  weakening  all  he  did.   His  whole  hfe,  indeed,  was  one  long 
i  waste  of  power,  simply  for  lack  of  an  elementary  frankness. 
I    But  if  these  became  Robert's  views  as  to  Vernon,  Vernon's 
I  feehng  toward  Elsmere  after  six  weeks'  acquaintance  was  not 
i  less  decided.   He  was  constitutionally  timid,  and  he  probably 
divined  in  his  new  helper  a  man  of  no  ordinary  caliber,  whose 
I  influence  might  very  well  turn  out  some  day  to  be  of  the  in- 
jcalculably  diffusive"  kind.   He  grew  uncomfortable,  begged 
!  Elsmere  to  beware  of  any    direct  religious  teaching,"  talked 
,  in  warm  praise  of  a    policy  of  omissions, "and  in  equally  warm 
denunciation  of    anything  like  a  policy  of  attack."   In  short, 
it  became  plain  that  two  men  so  much  alike,  and  yet  so  differ- 
I  ent,  could  not  long  co-operate. 

However,  just  as  the  fact  was  being  brought  home  to  Elsmere* 
I  a  friendly  chance  intervened. 

Hugh  Flaxman,  the  Leyburns'  new  acquaintance  and  Lady 
Helen's  brother,  had  been  drawn  to  Elsmere  at  first  sight;  and 
a  meeting  or  two,  now  at  Lady  Charlotte's,  now  at  the  Ley- 


482  ROBERT  ELSMERE.  ' 

bums',  had  led  both  men  far  on  the  way  to  a  friendship.  O! 
Hugh  Flaxman  himself  more  hereafter.   At  present  all  that 
need  be  recorded  is  that  it  was  at  Mr.  Flaxman's  house,  over- 
looking St.  James's  Park,  Eobert  first  met  a  man  who  was  to  , 
give  him  the  opening  for  which  he  was  looking. 

Mr.  Flaxman  was  fond  of  breakfast-parties  a  la  Rogers,  and  1 
on  the  first  occasion  when  Robert  could  be  induced  to  attend  one  :^ 
of  these  functions,  he  saw  opposite  to  him  what  he  supposed  to  , 
be  a  lad  of  twenty,  a  young  sUp  of  a  feUow,  whose  saUies  of  fun  i' 
and  invincible  good  humor  attracted  him  greatly.  \ 
Sparkling  brown  eyes,  full  hps  rich  in  humor  and  pugnacity, 
lockes  crull  as  they  were  layde  in  presse,"  the  same  look  of  f! 
'^wonderly"  activity,  too,  in  spite  of  his  short  stature  andl- 
dainty  make,  as  Chaucer  lends  his  squire— the  type  was  so  fresh  , 
and  pleasing  that  Robert  was  more  and  more  held  by  it,  espec-  i 
ially  when  he  discovered  to  his  bewilderment  that  the  supposed  i; 
strippling  must  be  from  his  talk  a  man  quite  as  old  as  himself, 
an  official  besides,  filling  what  was  clearly  some  important  place  ' 
in  the  worid.   He  took  his  full  share  in  the  politics  and  literar 
ture  started  at  the  table,  and  presently,  when  conversation  fell 
on  the  proposed  municipality  for  London,  said  things  to  which 
the  whole  party  listened.   Robert's  curiosity  was  aroused,  and 
after  breakfast  he  questioned  his  host  and  was  promptly  intro-' 
duced  to    Mr.  Murray  Edwardes." 

Whereupon  it  turned  out  that  this  baby-faced  sage  was  filhng 
a  post,  in  the  work  of  which  perhaps  few  people  in  London 
could  have  taken  so  much  interest  as  Robert  Elsmere. 

Fifty  years  before  a  wealthy  merchant  who  had  been  one  of ' 
the  chief  pillars  of  London  Unitarianism  had  made  his  will  and 
died.   His  great  warehouses  lay  in  one  of  the  eastern  river-side 
districts  of  the  city,  and  in  his  wfil  he  endeavored  to  do  some- 
thing according  to  his  lights  for  the  place  in  which  he  had  , 
amassed  his  money.   He  left  a  fairly  large  bequest  wherewith  , 
to  bufid  and  endow  a  Unitarian  chapel  and  found  certam  Uni- 
tarian  charities,  in  the  heart  of  what  was  even  then  one  of  the 
densest  and  most  poverty-stricken  of  London  parishes.   For  a 
long  time,  however,  chapel  and  charities  seemed  likely  to  rank 
as  one  of  the  idle  freaks  of  religious  wealth  and  nothing  more. 
Unitarianism  of  the  old  sort  is  perhaps  the  most  Hlogical  creed 
that  exists,  and  certainly  it  has  never  been  the  creed  of  the ' 
poor.   In  old  days  it  required  the  presence  of  a  certam  and< 
Btratum  of  the  middle  classes  to  live  and  thrive  at  all.  Thif 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


483 


stratum  was  not  to  be  found  in  E  ,  which  rejoiced  instead 

in  the  most  squalid  types  of  poverty  and  crime,  types  where- 
with the  ijLild,  shriveled  Unitarian  minister  had  about  as  much 
power  of  grappling  as  a  poet  laureate  with  a  Trafalgar  Square 
Socialist. 

Soon  alter  the  erection  of  the  chapel,  there  arose  that  shaking 
of  the  dry  bones  of  religious  England  which  we  call  the  Trac- 

tarian  movement.   For  many  years  the  new  force  left  R—  

quite  undisturbed.  The  parish  church  droned  away,  the  Uni- 
tarian minister  preached  decorously  to  empty  benches,  know- 
ing nothing  of  the  agitations  outside.  At  last,  however,  toward 
the  end  of  the  old  minister's  life,  a  powerful  church  of  the  new 
type,  staffed  by  friends  and  pupils  of  Pusey,  rose  in  the  center 

of  R  ,  and  the  little  Unitarian  chapel  was  for  a  time  more 

snuffed  out  than  ever,  a  fate  which  this  time  it  shared  dismally 
with  the  parish  church.  As  generally  happened,  however,  in 
those  days,  the  jproceedings  at  this  new  and  splendid  St.  Wil- 
frid's were  not  long  in  stirring  up  the  Protestantism  of  the 
British  rough— the  said  Protestantism  being  always  one  of  the 
finest  excuses  for  brickbats  of  which  the  modern  cockney  is 
master.  The  parish  lapsed  into  a  state  of  private  war— the  hec- 
,  tic  clergy  heading  exasperated  processions  of  intoning  defiant 
litanies  on  the  one  side—mobs,  rotten  eggs,  dead  cats,  and 
blatant  Protestant  orators  on  the  other. 

The  war  went  on  practically  for  years,  and  while  it  was  still 
raging  the  minister  of  the  Unitarian  chapel  died,  and  the  au- 
thorities concerned  chose  in  his  place  a  young  fellow,  the  son  of 
a  Bristol  minister,  a  Cambridge  man  besides,  as  chance  would 
have  it,  of  brilliant  attainments,  and  unusually  commended 
from  many  quarters,  even  including  some  Church  ones  of  the 
liberal  kind.  This  curly  haired  youth,  as  he  was  then  in  reahty, 
and  as  to  hi-s  own  quaint  vexation  he  went  on  seeming  to  be  up 
to  quite  middle  age,  had  the  wit  to  perceive  at  the  moment  of 
his  entry  on  the  troubled  scene  that  behind  all  the  mere  brutal 
opposition  to  the  new  church,  and  in  contrast  with  the  sheer 
indifference  of  three-fourths  of  the  district,  there  was  a  small 
party  consisting  of  an  aristocracy  of  the  artisans,  whose  pro- 
test against  the  Puseyite  doings  was  of  a  much  quieter,  sterner 
sort,  and  among  whom  the  uproar  had  mainly  roused  a  certain 
crude  power  of  thinking.  He  threw  himself  upon  this  element, 
which  he  rather  divined  than  discovered,  and  it  responded. 
He  preached  a  simple  creed^.  drove  it  home  by  pure  and  gen©r- 


484  ROBERT  BLSMEEE. 

ous  Uving:  and  he  lectured,  taught,  brought  down  workers 
from  the  West  End,  and  before  he  had  been  five  years  m  bar- 

ness  had  not  only  made  himself  a  power  in  R  ,  but  was  be- 

ging  to  be  heard  of  and  watched  with  no  smaU  interest  by  many 

outsiders.  ,    ,         .     vi  j  r>„ 

This  was  the  man  on  whom  Robert  had  now  stumbled.  Be- 
fore  they  had  talked  twenty  minutes  each  was  fascinated  by 
the  other    They  said  good-bye  to  their  host,  and  wandered  out 
together  into  St.  James's  Park,  where  the  trees  were  white  with 
frost  and  an  orange  sun  was  struggling  through  the  fog.  Here 
Murray  Edwardes  poured  out  the  whole  story  of  his  ministry 
to  attentive  ears.   Robert  listened  eagerly.   Unitarianism  was 
not  a  familiar  subject  of  thought  to  him.  He  bad  never  dreamed 
of  ioining  the  Unitarians,  and  was  indeed  long  ago  convinced 
that  in  the  beliefs  of  a  Channing  no  one  once  fairly  started  on 
the  critical  road  could  rationally  stop.   That  common  thinness 
and  aridity,  too,  of  the  Unitarian  temper  had  weighed  with 
him.   But  here,  in  the  person  of  Murray  Edwardes,  it  was  as 
though  he  saw  something  old  and  threadbare  revivified,  ihe 
young  man's  creed,  as  he  presented  it,  had  grace,  persuasive- 
ness, even  unction,  and  there  was  somethmg  m  his  tone  of 
mind  which  was  like  a  fresh  wind  blowing  over  the  fevered  . 
nlaces  of  the  other's  heart.  .    ,  . 

They  talked  long  and  earnestly,  Edwardes  descnbmg  his  own 
work,  and  the  changes  creeping  over  the  modern  Umtarian 
body,' Elsmere  saying  little,  asking  much. 

M  last  the  young  man  looked  at  Elsmere  with  eyes  of  bnght 

(\  poision  • 

"  You  can  not  work  with  the  Church !"  he  said-"  it  is  impos- 
sible.  You  will  only  wear  yourself  out  in  efforts  to  restrain 
what  you  could  do  infinitely  more  good,  as  things  stand  noyf,bj 
pouring  out.  Come  to  us-I  will  put  you  in  the  way  You 
shall  be  hampered  by  no  pledges  of  any  sort,  ^^ome  and  take 
the  direction  of  some  of  my  workers.  We  have  aU  got  our 
hands  morethanfuU.  Your  knowledge,  y^"';^^^?^.™'^^^^ 
be  invaluable.  There  is  no  other  opening  hke  it  m  England 
just  now  for  men  of  your  way  of  thinkmg  and  mme.  Come 
Who  knows  what  we  may  be  putting  our  hands  to-what  frmt 
may  grow  from  the  smallest  seed?"  .  d^u 

The  two  men  stopped  beside  the  Hghtly  frozen  water.  Ro^ 
ert  gathered  that  in  this  soul,  too,  there  had  risen  the  samelar^ 
mtolicating  dream  of  a  reorganized  Christendom,  a  new  wide- 


BOBERT  ELSMERE, 


485 


spreading  shelter  of  faith  for  discouraged  browbeaten  man,  as 
in  his  own.  I  will,"  he  said,  briefly,  after  a  pause,  his  own 
look  kindling— ''it  is  the  opening  I  have  been  pining  for.  I 
will  give  you  all  I  can,  and  bless  you  for  the  chance." 

That  evening  Eobert  got  home  late  after  a  busy  day  full  of 
various  engagements.     Mary,  after  some  waiting  up  for 
i    Fader,"  had  just  been  carried  protesting,  red  lips  pouting, 
I  and  fat  legs  kicking,  off  to  bed.   Catherine  was  straightening 
the  room,  which  had  been  thrown  into  confusion  by  the  child's 
romps. 

i  It  was  with  an  effort— for  he  knew  it  would  be  a  shock  to  her 
j  —that  he  began  to  talk  to  her  about  the  breakfast-  party  at  Mr. 
I  Flaxman's,  and  his  talk  with  Murray  Edwardes.  But  he  had 
made  it  a  rule  with  himself  to  tell  her  everything  that  he  was 
doing  or  meant  to  do.  She  would  not  let  him  tell  her  what  he 
was  thinking.  But  as  much  openness  as  there  could  be  between 
them,  there  should  be. 

Catherine  listened— still  moving  about  the  while— the  thin 
beautiful  hps  becoming  more  and  more  compressed.   Yes,  it 
was  hard  to  her,  very  hard ;  the  people  among  whom  she  had 
I  been  brought  up,  her  father  especially,  would  have  held  out 
!  the  hand  of  fellowship  to  anybody  of  Christian  people,  but  not 
!  to  the  Unitarian.   No  real  barrier  of  feeling  divided  them  from 
I  any  orthodox  Dissenter,  but  the  gulf  between  them  and  the 
Unitarian  had  been  dug  very  deep  by  various  forces— forces  of 
thought  originally,  of  strong  habit  and  prejudice  in  the  course 
of  time. 

He  is  going  to  work  with  them  now,"  she  thought,  bitterly; 
soon  he  will  be  one  of  them— perhaps  a  Unitarian  minister 
himself." 

And  for  the  hfe  of  her,  as  he  told  his  tale,  she  could  find  noth- 
ing but  embarrassed  monosyllables,  and  still  more  embar- 
rassed silences  wherewith  to  answer  him.  Till  at  last  he,  too, 
fell  silent,  feeling  once  more  the  sting  of  a  now  habitual  dis- 
comfort. 

Presently,  however,  Catherine  came  to  sit  down  beside  him. 
She  laid  her  head  against  his  knee,  saying  nothing,  but  gather- 
ing his  hand  closely  in  both  her  own. 

Poor  woman's  heart !  One  moment  in  rebellion,  the  next  a 
suppliant.   He  bent  down  quickly  and  kissed  her. 

* '  Would  you  hke,  "he  said,  presently,  after  both  had  sat  silent 


I 


486  EGBERT  ELSMERE. 

awhile  in  the  fire-light,  "  would  you  care  to  go  to  Madame  de 

Netteville's  to-night?" 

*'By  all  means,"  said  Catherine,  with  a  sort  of  eagerness. 

It  ivas  Friday  she  asked  us  for,  wasn't  it?  We  will  be  quick 
over  dinner,  and  I  will  go  and  dress." 

In  that  last  ten  minutes  which  Eobert  had  spent  with  the 
squire  in  his  bedroom,  on  the  Monday  afternoon  when  they 
were  to  have  walked,  Mr.  Wendover  had  dryly  recommended 
Elsmere  to  cultivate  Mme.  de  Netteville.  He  sat  propped  up 
in  his  chair,  white,  gaunt  and  cynical,  and  this  remark  of  his 
was  almost  the  only  reference  he  would  allow  to  the  Elsmere 

move.  ..,11 

^' You  had  better  go  there,"  he'said,  huskily,  *^it  will  do  you  j 
good.    She  gets  the  first-rate  people  and  she  makes  them  talk, , 
which  Lady  Charlotte  can't.   Too  many  fools  at  Lady  Char- 
lotte's; she  waters  the  wine  too  much." 

And  he  had  persisted  with  the  subject— using  it,  as  Elsmere 
thought,  as  a  means  of  warding  off  other  conversation.  He 
would  not  ask  Elsmere's  plans,  and  he  would  not  allow  a  word 
about  himself. 

There  had  been  a  heart  attack,  old  Meyrick  thought,  coupled 
with  signs  of  nervous  strain  and  excitement.  It  was  the  last 
ailment  which  evidently  troubled  the  doctor  most.  But,  be- 
hind the  physical  breakdown,  there  was  to  Eobert^s  sense  some- 
thing else,  a  spiritual  something,  infinitely  forlorn  and  piteous,  I 
which  revealed  itself  wholly  against  the  elder  man's  wiU,  and 
fiUed  the  younger  with  a  dumb,  helpless  rush  of  sympathy. 
Since  his  departure  Eobert  had  made  the  keeping  up  of  his  cor- 
respondence with  the  squire  a  binding  obligation,  and  he  was 
to-night  chiefly  anxious  to  go  to  Mme.  de  Netteville's  that  he 
might  write  an  account  of  it  to  Murewell. 

Still  the  squire's  talk,  and  his  own  glimpse  of  her  at  Mure- 
well,  had  made  him  curious  to  see  more  of  the  woman  herself. 
The  sq^iire's  ways  of  describing  her  were  always  half  approv- 
ing, half  sarcastic.  Eobert  sometimes  imagined  that  he  himselJ 
had  been  at  one  time  more  under  her  speU  than  he  cared  to  con- 
fess. If  so  it  must  have  been  when  she  was  still  in  Paris,  thi 
young  English  widow  of  a  man  of  old  French  family,  rich,  fa^ 
cinating,  distinguished  and  the  center  of  a  small  salon,  admis 
sion  to  which  was  one  of  the  social  blue  ribbons  of  Pans.  ^ 
Since  the  war  of  1870  Mme.  de  Netteville  had  fixed  her  head 
quarters  in  London,  and  it.  was  to  her  house  m  Hans  Place  tha 


r 


ROBEBT  ELSMEEB.  48? 

the  squire  wrote  to  her  about  the  Elsmeres.   She  owed  Eoger 

Wendover  debts  of  various  kinds,  and  she  had  an  encouraging 
i  memory  of  the  young  clergyman  on  the  terrace  at  Mureweil. 

So  she  promptly  left  her  cards,  together  with  the  intimation 
I  that  she  was  at  home  always  on  Friday  evenings, 
i       I  have  never  seen  the  wife,"  she  meditated,  as  her  delicate 

jeweled  hand  drew  up  the  window  of  her  brougham  in  front  of 

the  Elsmeres'  lodgings.      But  if  she  is  the  ordinary  country 

clergyman's  spouse,  the  squire  of  course  will  have  given  the 
i  young  man  a  hint." 

But  whether  from  oblivion,  or  from  some  instinct  of  grim 

humor  toward  Catherine,  whom  he  had  always  vaguely  dis- 
I  liked,  the  squire  said  not  one  word  about  his  wife  to  Robert  in 
I  the  course  of  their  talk  of  Mme.  de  Netteville. 
I     Catherine  took  pains  v/ith  her  dress,  sorely  wishing  to  do 

Robert  credit.  She  put  on  one  of  the  gowns  she  had  taken  to 
'  Mureweil  when  she  married.    It  was  black,  simply  made,  and 

had  been  a  favorite  with  both  of  them  in  the  old  surroundings. 
So  they  drove  off  to  Mme.  de  Netteviile's.   Catherine's  heart 
;  was  beating  faster  than  usual  as  she  mounted  the  twisting 
j  stairs  of  the  luxurious  little  house.   All  these  new  social  ex- 
;  periences  were  a  trial  to  her.   But  she  had  the  vaguest,  most 

imsuspicious  ideas  of  what  she  was  to  see  in  this  particular 

house. 

I    A  long  low  room  was  thrown  open  to  them.   Unlike  most 
English  rooms,  it  was  barely  though  richly  furnished.   A  Per- 
j  sian  carpet,  of  a  self-colored  grayish  blue,  threw  the  gilt  French 
I  chairs  and  the  various  figures  sitting  upon  them  into  delicate 
I  relief.    The  walls  were  painted  white,  and  had  a  few  French 
||  mirrors  and  girandoles  upon  them,  half  a  dozen*  fine  French 
I  portraits,  too,  here  and  there,  let  into  the  wall  in  oval  frames. 
The  subdued  light  came  from  the  white  sides  of  the  room, 
and  seemed  to  be  there  solely  for  social  purposes.   You  could 
hardly  have  read  or  written  in  the  room,  but  you  could  see  a 
beautiful  woman  in  a  beautiful  dress  there,  and  you  could  talk 
there,  either  Ute-d^-tite,  or  to  the  assembled  company,  to  per- 
I  fection,  so  cunningly  was  it  all  devised. 

!    When  the  Blsmei-es  entered  there  were  about  a  dozen  people? 
present-^ten  gentlemen  and  two  ladies.   One  of  the  ladies, 
Mme.  d©  Nette*^ill@,  was  lying  back  in  the  corner  of  a  velvet 
I  divan  placed  against  the  wall,  a  screen  between  her  and  a 
lM)lendid  fire  that  threw  its  blaze  out  into  the  room.  The  other, 


488  EOBEET  ELSMBEB. 

a  slim  woman  with  closely  curled  fair  hair,  and  a  neck  ahnor- 
mally  long  and  white,  sat  near  her,  and  the  circle  of  men  was  ^ 
talking  indiscriminately  to  both.  ^ 
As  the  footman  announced  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Elsmere  there  was  | 
a  general  stir  of  surprise,   The  men  looked  round;  Mme.  de -J 
Netteville  half  rose  with  a  puzzled  look.   It  was  more  than  a  f 
month  since  she  had  dropped  her  invitation.  Then  a  fl^h,  not  ^ 
altogether  of  pleasure  passed  over  her  face,  and  she  said  a  few  ^ 
hasty  words  to  the  woman  near  her,  advancmg  the  moment^ 
afterward  to  give  her  hand  to  Catherine.  ^ 
"  This  is  very  kind  of  you,  Mrs.  Elsmere,  to  remember  me  so  * 
soon.   I  had  imagined  you  were  hardly  settled  enough  yet  to.^ 
give  me  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you."  | 
But  the  eyes  fixed  on  Catherine,  eyes  which  took  m  every-1 
thing,  were  not  cordial,  for  aU  their  smile.  | 
Catherine,  looking  up  at  her,  was  overpowered  by  her  exc^- . 
sive  manner,  and  by  the  woman's  look  of  conscious  sarcastic 
strength,  struggling  through  all  the  outer  softness  of  beauty 
and  exquisite  dress.  r.  4.  t  „. 

"Mr.  Elsmere,  you  will  find  this  room  ahnost  as  hot,  I  am 
afraid,  as  that  afternoon  on  which  we  met  last.  Let  me  intro-- 
duce  you  to  Count  Wielandt-Mr.  Elsmere.  Mrs.  Elsmere,  will 
you  come  over  here,  beside  Lady  Aubrey  Willert. " 

Eobert  found  himself  bowing  to  a  young  diplomatist,  who 
seemed  to  him  to  look  at  him  very  much  as  he  himself  might 
have  scrutinized  an  inhabitant  of  New  Guinea.  Lady  Aubrey 
made  an  imperceptible  movement  of  the  head  as  Catherine  was 
presented  to  her,  and  Mme.  de  Netteville,  smiling  and  bitmg 
her  lip  a  little,  fell  back  into  her  seat.  .   „  . 

There  was  a  faint  odor  of  smoke  in  the  room.   As  Catherme 
sat  down  a  young  exquisite  a  few  yards  from  her  threw  the  end 
of  a  cigarette  into  the  fire  with  a  little  sharp  decided  gesture. 
Lady  Aubrey  also  pushed  away  a  cigarette-case  which  lay  be- 
side her  hand.  ^       t.  i.  -ji  * 
Everybody  there  had  the  air  more  or  less  of  an  Jmbttu9  (O. 
the  house;  and  when  the  conversation  began  again  the  Els- 
meres  found  it  very  hard,  in  spite  of  certain  perfunctory  efforts 
on  the  part  of  Mme.  de  Nettevflle,  to  take  any  share  in  it.     , : 
"Well,  I  beheve  the  story  about  Desfor^ts  is  true,"  said  tbS' 
fair-haked  young  Apollo,  who  had  thrown  away  his  cigarette, 
loIUng  back  in  his  chair. 
Catherine  started,  the  little  scene  with  Eose  and  Langhamw 


48d 


the  English  rectory  garden  flashing  incongruously  back  upon 
her. 

' '  If  you  get  it  from  the  '  Ferret, '  my  dear  Evershed, "  said  the 
ex-Tory  minister,  Lord  Eupert,  *^you  may  put  it  down  as  a 
safe  lie.  As  for  me,  I  belive  she  has  a  much  shrewder  eye  to 
the  main  chance." 

What  do  you  mean?"  said  the  other,  raising  astonished  eye- 
brows. 

Well,  it  doesn^t  pay,  you  know,  to  write  yourself  down  a 
fiend — not  quite." 

What— you  think  it  will  affect  her  audiences?  Well,  that 
is  a  good  joke !"  and  the  young  man  laughed  immoderately, 
joined  by  several  of  the  other  guests. 

I  don't  imagine  it  will  make  any  difference  to  you,  my 
good  friend,"  returned  Lord  Eupert,  imperturbably ;  *'but  the 
British  public  haven't  got  your  nerve.  They  may  take  it  awk- 
wardly—I  don't  say  they  will— when  a  woman  who  has  turned 
her  own  young  sister  out-of-doors  at  nighty  in  St.  Petersburg, 
so  that  ultimately  as  a  consequence  the  girl  dies,  comes  to  ask 
them  to  clap  her  touching  impersonations  of  injured  virtue." 

What  has  one  to  do  with  an  actress's  private  life,  my  dear 
Lord  Eupert?"  asked  Mm e.  de  Netteville,  her  voice  slipping  with 
a  smooth  clearness  into  the  conversation,  her  eyes  darting  light 
from  under  straight  black  brows. 

'*  What,  indeed!"  said  the  young  man  who  had  begun  the 
conversation,  with  a  disagreeable  enigmatical  smile,  stretching 
out  his  hand  for  another  cigarette,  and  drawing  it  back  with  a 
look  under  his  drooped  eyelids— a  look  of  cold  impertinent 
scrutiny — at  Catherine  Elsmere. 

Ah,  well — I  don't  want  to  be  obtrusively  moral— Heaven 
forbid !   But  there  is  such  a  thing  as  destroying  the  illusion  to 
such  an  extent  that  you  injure  jonr  pocket.   Desforets  is  do- 
ing it — doing  it  actually  in  Paris,  too." 
There  was  a  ripple  of  laughter. 

^*  Paris  and  illusions— O  mon  Dieuf'^  groaned  young  Ever- 
shed,  when  he  had  done  laughing,  laying  meditative  hands  on 
his  knees,  and  gazing  into  the  fire. 

'*I  teUyouI  have  seen  it,"  said  Lord  Eupert,  waxing  com- 
bative, and  slapping  the  leg  he  was  nursing  with  emphasis. 

The  last  time  I  went  to  see  Desforets  in  Paris  the  theater  was 
crammed,  and  the  house — theatrically  speaking— They 
received  her  in  dead  silence— they  gave  her  not  one  single  recall 


490 


SOBEKT  ELSMEBE. 


—and  they  only  gave  her  a  clap,  that  I  can  remember,  at  those 
two  or  three  points  in  the  play  where  clap  they  positively 
must  or  burst.  They  go  to  see  her— but  they  loathe  her— and 
they  let  her  know  it." 

"Bah !"  said  hi^  opponent,  " it  is  only  because  they  are  tired 
of  her.  Her  vagaries  don't  amuse  them  any  longer— they  know 
them  by  heart.  And— by  George!  she  has  some  pretty  rivals, 
too,  now!"  he  added,  reflectively— not  to  speak  of  the  Bern- 
hardt." 

''Well,  the  Parisians  can  be  shocked,"  said  Count  Wielandt 
in  excellent  English,  bending  forward  so  as  to  get  a  good  view 
of  his  hostess.  ''They  are  just  now  especially  shocked  by  the 
condition  of  English  morals." 

The  twinkle  in  his  eye  was  irresistible.  The  men,  under- 
standing his  reference  to  the  avidity  with  which  certain  Eng- 
lish aristocratic  scandals  had  been  lately  seized  upon  by  the 
French  papers,  laughed  out— so  did  Lady  Aubrey.  Mme.  de 
Netteville  contented  herself  with  a  smile. 

''They  profess  to  be  shocked,  too,  by  Eenan's  last  book," 
said  the  editor  from  the  other  side  of  the  room. 

''Dear  mel"  said  Lady  Aubrey,  with  meditative  scorn,  fan- 
ning herself  lightly  the  while,  her  thin  but  extraordinarily 
graceful  head  and  neck  thrown  out  against  the  golden  brocade 
of  the  cushion  behind  her. 

"Oh!  what  so  many  of  them  feel  in  Eenan's  case,  of  course," 
said  Mme.  de  Netteville,  "is  that  every  book  he  w^rites  now 
gives  a.  fresh  opening  to  the  enemy  to  blaspheme.  Your  emi- 
nent freethinker  can't  afford  just  yet,  in  the  present  state  of 
the  world,  to  make  himself  socially  ridiculous.  The.  cause 
suffers." 

"Just  my  feeling,"  said  young  Evershed,  calmly.  "Though 
I  mayn't  care  a  rap  about  him  personally,  I  prefer  that  a  man 
on  my  own  front  bench  shouldn't  make  a  public  ass  of  himself 
if  he  can  help  it— not  for  his  sake,  of  course,  but  for  mine !" 

Eobert  looked  at  Catherine.  She  sat  upright  by  the  side  of 
Lady  Aubrey ;  her  face,  of  which  the  beauty  to-night  seemed 
lost  in  rigidity,  pale  and  stiff.  With  a  contraction  of  heart  he 
plunged  himself  into  the  conversation.  On  his  road  home  that 
evening  he  had  found  an  important  foreign  telegram  posted  up 
at  the  small  Hterary  club  to  which  he  had  belonged  since  Ox- 
ford davs.  He  made  a  remark  about  it  now  to  Count  Wielandt : 


ROBERT  JBLSMEEE. 


491 


and  the  diplomatist,  turning  rather  unwillingly  to  face  his 
questioner,  recognized  that  the  remark  was  a  shrewd  one. 

Presently  the  young  man's  frank  inteUigence  had  told.  On 
his  way  to  and  from  the  Holy  Land  three  years  before  Kobert 
had  seen  something  of  the  East,  and  it  so  happened  that  he 
remembered  the  name  of  Count  Wielandt  as  one  of  the  foreign 
secretaries  of  legation  present  at  an  official  party  given  by  the 
English  ambassador  at  Constantinople,  which  he  and  his 
mother  had  attended  on  their  return  journey,  in  virtue  of  a 
family  connection  with  the  ambassador.  All  that  he  could 
glean  from  memory  he  made  quick  use  of  now,  urged  at  first 
by  the  remorseful  wish  to  make  this  new  world  into  which  he 
had  brought  Catherine  less  difficult  than  he  knew  it  must  have 
been  during  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour. 

But  after  awhile  he  found  himself  leading  the  talk  of  a 
section  of  the  room,  and  getting  excitement  and  pleasure  out 
of  the  talk  itself.  Ever  since  that  Eastern  journey  he  had  kept 
an  eye  on  the  subjects  which  had  interested  him  then,  reading 

I  in  his  rapid  voracious  way  all  that  came  across  him  at  Mure- 
well,  especially  in  the  squire's  foreign  newspapers  and  reviews, 
and  storing  it  when  read  in  a  remarkable  memory. 

Catherine,  after  the  failure  of  some  conversational  attempts 
between  her  and  Mme.  de  Netteville,  fell  to  watching  her  hus> 
band  with  a  start  of  strangeness  and  surprise.  She  had  scarcely 
seen  him  at  Oxford  among  his  equals ;  and  she  had  very  rarely 
been  present  at  his  talks  with  the  squire.  In  some  ways,  and 
owing  to  the  instinctive  reserves  set  up  between  them  for  so 
long,  her  intellectual  knowledge  of  him  was  very  imperfect. 
His  ease,  his  resource,  among  these  men  of  the  world,  for 
whom— independent  of  all  else— she  felt  a  countrywoman's  dis- 
like, filled  her  with  a  kind  of  bewilderment. 

'*Are  you  new  to  LT^ndon?"  Lady  Aubrey  asked  her  pres- 
ently, in  that  tone  of  absolute  detachment  from  the  person 

I  addressed  which  certain  women  manage  to  perfection.  She, 

I  too,  had  been  watching  the  husband,  and  the  sight  had  im- 

i  pressed  her  with  a  momentary  curiosity  to  know  what  the  stiff, 

I  handsome,  dowdily  dressed  wife  was  made  of. 

We  have  been  two  months  here,"  said  Catherine,  her  large 
gray  eyes  taking  in  her  companion's  very  bare  shoulders,  the 

1  costly  fantastic  dress,  and  the  diamonds  flashing  against  the 
white  skin. 

,    "In  what  part  r 

I 


■1 

492  EOBEET  HLSMBEE. 

* '  In  Bedford  Square. " 

Lady  Aubrey  was  silent.   She  had  no  ideas  on  the  subject  of 
Bedford  Square  at  command. 

We  are  very  central,"  said  Catherine,  feeling  desperately 
that  she  was  doing  Eobert  no  credit  at  all,  and  anxious  to  talk 
if  only  something  could  be  found  to  talk  about. 

^' Oh,  yes,  you  are  near  the  theaters,"  said  the  other  in-  i 
differently. 

This  was  hardly  an  aspect  of  the  matter  which  had  yet  oc- 
curred to  Catherine.  A  flash  of  bitterness  ran  through  her. 
Had  they  left  their  Mure  well  life  to  be  near  the  theaters,  "and 
kept  at  arm's-length  by  supercilious  great  ladies  ?  ' 

'*Weare  very  far  from  the  park,"  she  answered,  with  an 
effort.      I  wish  we  weren't,  for  my  little  girl's  sake." 

Oh,  you  have  a  little  girl !  How  old  ?"  I 
Sixteen  months."  I 

''Too  yoxmg  to  be  a  nuisance  yet.  Mine  are  just  old  enough  | 
to  be  in  everybody's  way.  Children  are  out  of  place  in  Lon- 
don. I  always  want  to  leave  mine  in  the  country,  but  my 
husband  objects,"  said  Lady  Aubrey,  coolly.  There  was  a  cer- 
tain  piquancy  in  saying  frank  things  to  this  stiff  Madonna- 
faced  woman.  | 

Mme.  de  Netteville,  meanwhile,  was  keeping  up  a  conversa- 
tion in  an  under-tone  with  young  Evershed,  who  had  come  to 
sit  on  a  stool  beside  her,  and  was  gazing  up  at  her  with  eyes  of  ' 
which  the  expression  was  perfectly  understood  by  several  per- 
sons present.  The  handsome,  dissipated,  ill-conditioned  youth 
had  been  her  slave  and  shadow  for  the  last  two  years.  His 
devotion  now  no  longer  amused  her,  and  she  was  endeavoring/ 
to  get  rid  of  it  and  of  him.  But  the  process  was  a  difficult  one, 
and  took  both  time  and  finesse. 

She  kept  her  eye,  notwithstanding,  on  the  new-comers  whom 
the  squire's  introduction  had  brought  to  her  that  night.  When 
the  Elsmeres  rose  to  go,  she  said  good-bye  to  Catherine  with  an 
excessive  pohteness,  nnder  which  her  poor  guest,  conscious  of 
her  own  gauchei^ie  during  the  evening,  felt  the  touch  of  satire 
she  was  perhaps  meant  to  feel.  But  when  Catherine  was  well 
ahead  Mme.  de  Netteville  gave  Eobert  one  of  her  most  brilliant 
smiles. 

Friday  evening,  Mr,  Elsmere;  always  Fridays.  You  will 
remember  ?" 

Ihe  naivete  of  Eobert's  social  view,  and  the  mobility  of  ly« 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


493 


temper,  made  him  easily  responsive.  He  had  just  enjoyed  half 
an  hour's  brilliant  talk  with  two  or  three  of  the  keenest  and 
most  accompHshed  men  in  Europe.  Catherine  had  slipped  out 
of  his  sight  meanwhile,  and  the  impression  of  their  entree  had 
been  effaced.  He  made  Mme.  de  Netteville,  therefore,  a  cor- 
dial smiling  reply  before  his  tall,  slender  form  disappeared 
after  that  of  his  wife. 

''Agreeable— rather  an  acquisition!"  said  Mme.  de  Netteville 
to  Lady  Aubrey,  with  a  light  motion  of  the  head  toward  Eob- 
ert's  retracting  figure.  ' '  But  the  wife !  Good  heavens !  I  owe 
Roger  Wendover  a  grudge.  I  think  he  might  have  made  it 
plain  to  those  good  people  that  I  don't  want  strange  women  at 
my  Friday  evenings." 

Lady  Aubrey  laughed.  ''No  doubt  she  is  a  genius,  or  a 
saint,  in  mufti.  She  might  be  handsome  too  if  some  toe  would 
dress  her." 

Mme.  de  Netteville  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "Oh!  life  is  not 
long  enough  to  penetrate  that  kind  of  person,"  she  said. 

Meanwhile  the  "person"  was  driving  homeward  very  sad 
and  ill  at  ease.  She  was  vexed  that  she  had  not  done  better, 
and  yet  she  was  wounded  by  Robert's  enjoyment.  The  Puri- 
tan in  her  blood  was  all  aflame.  As  she  sat  looking  into  the 
motley  lamp-Hghted  night,  she  could  have  "testified"  like  any 
prophetess  of  old.  . 

Robert  meanwhile,  his  hand  slipped  into  hers,  was  thinking 
of  Wielandt's  talk,  and  of  some  racy  stories  of  Berlin  celebrities 
told  by  a  young  attache  who  had  joined  their  group.  His  lips 
were  lightly  smiling,  his  brow  serene. 

But  as  he  helped  her  down  from  the  cab,  and  they  stood  in 
the  hall  together,  he  noticed  the  pale  discomposure  of  her  looks. 
Instantly  the  familiar  dread  and  pain  returned  upon  him. 

"  Did  you  like  it,  Catherine  ?"  he  asked  her,  with  something 
like  timidity,  as  they  stood  together  by  their  bedroom  fire. 

She  sunk  into  a  low  chair  and  sat  a  moment  staring  at  the 
blaze.  He  was  startled  by  her  look  of  suffering,  and  kneeling, 
he  put  his  arms  tenderly  round  her. 

"  Oh,  Robert,  Robert!"  she  cried,  falling  on  his  neck. 
"What  is  it  ?"  he  asked,  kissing  her  hair. 
"I  seem  all  at  sea,"  she  said,  in  a  choked  voice,  her  face  hid- 
den- -"  the  old  landmarks  swallowed  up  I   I  am  always  judging 
and  condemning—always  protesting.  What  am  I  that  I  should 
judge  ?  But  how— how— oa^  I  help  it  ?" 


494  EGBERT  ELSMERB. 

She  drew  herself  away  from  him,  once  more  looking  into  the  1 
fire  with  drawn  brows.  | 
Darling,  the  world  is  full  of  difference.    Men  and  women  ] 
take  life  in  different  ways.    Don't  be  so  sure  yours  is  the  only  ll 
right  one."  | 

He  spoke  with  a  moved  gentleness,  taking  her  hand  the  while.  8 
*  This  is  the  way,  walk  ye  in  it ! ' "  she  said,  presently,  with  \ 
strong,  almost  stern  emphasis.      Oh,  those  women,  and  that 
talk!  Hateful!" 

He  rose  and  looked  down  on  her  from  the  mantel-piece. 
Within  him  was  a  movement  of  impatience,  repressed  almost  . 
at  once  by  the  thought  of  that  long  night  at  Murewell,  when  he  ; 
had  vowed  to  himself  to    make  amends !" 

And  if  that  memory  had  not  intervened  she  would  still  have  \ 
disarmed  him  wholly. 

Listen!"  she  said  to  him,  suddenly,  her  eyes  kindling  with* 
a  strange,  childish  pleasure.  Do  you  hear  the  wind,  the  west ; 
wind?  Do  you  remember  how  it  used  to  shake  the  house,  how' 
it  used  to  come  sweeping  through  the  trees  in  the  wood-path? 
It  must  be  trying  the  study  window  now,  blowing  the  vinej 
against  it." 

A  yearning  passion  breathed  through  every  feature.  It^ 
seemed  to  him  she  saw  nothing  before  her.   Her  longing  soul^ 
was  back  in  the  old  haunts,  surrounded  by  the  old  loved  forms  \ 
and  sounds.   It  went  to  his  heart.  He  tried  to  soothe  her  with  li 
the  tenderest  words  remorseful  love  could  find.   But  the  con-  | 
fiict  of  feeling — grief,  rebellion,  doubt,  self -judgment — would  ^ 
not  be  soothed,  and  long  after  she  had  made  him  leave  her  and  : 
he  had  fallen  asleep,  she  knelt  on,  a  white  and  rigid  figure  in  j 
the  dying  fire  Hght,  the  wind  shaking  the  old  house,  the  eternal 
murmur  of  London  booming  outside.  \ 

CHAPTER  XXXIV.  \ 

Meanwhile,  as  if  to  complete  the  circle  of  pain  with  which  1 
poor  Catherine's  life  was  compassed,  it  began  to  be  plain  to  her  | 
that,  in  spite  of  the  hard  and  mocking  tone  Rose  generally  1 
adopted  with  regard  to  him,  Edward  Langham  was  constantly  1 
at  the  house  in  Lerwick  Gardens,  and  that  it  was  impossible  | 
he  should  be  there  so  much  unless  in  some  way  or  other  Rose  | 
encouraged  it.  | 

The  idea  of  such  a  marriage— nay,  of  such  a  friendship—was 


ROBERT  ELSMERB. 


496 


naturally  as  repugnant  as  ever  to  her.  It  had  been  one  of  the 
bitterest  moments  of  a  bitter  time  when,  at  their  first  meeting 
after  the  crisis  in  her  life,  Langham,  conscious  of  a  sudden 
movement  of  pity  for  a  woman  he  disliked,  had  pressed  the 
hand  she  held  out  to  him  in  a  way  which  clearly  showed  her 
what  was  in  his  mind,  and  had  then  passed  on  to  chat  and 
smoke  with  Kobert  in  the  study,  leaving  her  behind  to  realize 
the  gulf  that  lay  between  the  present  and  that  visit  of  his  to 
Murewell,  when  Robert  and  she  had  felt  in  unison  toward  him, 
his  opinions,  and  his  conduct  to  Rose,  as  toward  everything 
else  of  importance  in  their  life. 

Now  it  seemed  to  her  Robert  must  necessarily  look  at  the 
matter  differently,  and  she  could  not  make  up  her  mind  to  talk 
to  him  about  it.  In  reality,  his  objections  had  never  had  the 
same  basis  as  hers,  and  he  would  have  given  her  as  strong  a 
support  as  ever  if  she  had  asked  for  it.  But  she  held  her  peace, 
and  he,  absorbed  in  other  things,  took  no  notice.  Besides,  he 
knew  Langham  too  well.  He  had  never  been  able  to  take 
Catherine's  alarms  seriously. 

An  attentive  on-looker,  however,  would  have  admitted  that 
this  time,  at  any  rate,  they  had  their  justification.  Why  Lang- 
ham  was  so  much  in  the  Leyburns'  drawing-room  during  these 
winter  months  was  a  question  which  several  people  asked— him- 
self not  least.  He  had  not  only  pretended  to  forget  Rose  Ley- 
burn  during  the  eighteen  months  which  had  passed  since  their 
first  acquaintance  at  Murewell— he  had  for  all  practical  pur- 
poses forgotten  her.  It  is  only  a  small  proportion  of  men  and 
women  who  are  capable  of  passion  on  the  great  scale  at  all; 
and  certainly,  as  we  have  tried  to  show,  Langham  was  not 
among  them.  He  had  had  a  passing  moment  of  excitement  at 
MureweU,  soon  put  down,  and  followed  by  a  week  of  extremely 
pleasant  sensations,  which,  like  most  of  his  pleasures,  had 
ended  in  reaction  and  self -abhorrence.  He  had  left  Murewell 
remorseful,  melancholy,  ^d  ill  at  ease,  but  conscious,  certain- 
ly, of  a  great  reUef  that  he  and  Rose  Leyburn  were  not  likely 
to  meet  again  for  long. 

Then  his  settlement  in  London  had  absorbed  him,  as  aU  such 
matters  absorb  men  who  have  become  the  slaves  of  their  own 
solitary  habits,  and  in  th@  joy  of  his  new  freedom,  and  the 
fresh  zest  for  learning  it  had  aroused  in  him,  the  beautiful  un- 
manageable child  who  had  disturbed  his  peace  at  Murewell  was 
not  likely  to  be  more,  but  less,  remembered.   When  he  stum- 


496 


EGBERT  ELSMEEE. 


bled  across  her  unexpectedly  in  the  National  Gallery,  his  de- 
termining impulse  had  been  merely  one  of  flight. 

However,  as  he  had  written  to  Eobert  toward  the  beginning 
of  his  London  residence,  there  was  no  doubt  that  his  migration 
had  made  him  for  the  time  much  more  human,  observant,  and 
accessible.  Oxford  had  become  to  him  an  oppression  and  a 
nightmare,  and  ss  soon  as  he  had  turned  his  back  on  it  his  men- 
tal lungs  seemed  once  more  to  fill  with  air.  He  took  his  modest 
part  in  the  life  of  the  coital;  happy  in  the  obscurity  afforded 
him  by  the  crowd;  rejoicing  in  the  thought  that  his  life  and 
his  affairs  were  once  more  his  own,  and  the  academical  yoke 
had  been  slipped  forever. 

It  was  in  this  mood  of  greater  cheerfulness  and  energy  that 
his  fresh  sight  of  Eose  found  him.  For  the  moment,  he  was 
perhaps  more  susceptible  than  he  ever  could  have  been  before 
to  her  young  perfections,  her  beauty,  her  brilhancy,  her  pro- 
voking stimulating  ways.  Certainly,  from  that  first  afternoon 
onward  he  became  more  and  more  restless  to  watch  her,  to  be 
near  her,  to  see  what  she  made  of  herself  and  her  gifts.  In 
general,  though  it  was  certainly  owing  to  her  that  he  came  so 
much,  she  took  small  notice  of  him.  He  regarded,  or  chose  to 
regard,  himself  as  a  mere  *4tem'— something  systematically 
overlooked  and  forgotten  in  the  bustle  of  her  days  and  nights. 
He  saw  that  she  thought  badly  of  him,  that  the  friendship  he 
might  have  had  was  now  proudly  refused  him,  that  their  first 
week  together  had  left  a  deep  impression  of  resentment  and 
hostihty  in  her  mind.  And  aU  the  same  he  came ;  and  she  asked 
him !  And  sometimes,  after  an  hour  when  she  had  been  more 
difficult  or  more  satirical  than  usual,  ending  notwithstanding 
with  a  little  change  of  tone,  a  careless  You  wiU  find  us  next 
Wednesday  as  usual;  So-and-so  is  coming  to  play,"  Langham 
svould  walk  home  in  a  state  of  feeling  he  did  not  care  to  analyze^ 
but  which  certainly  quickened  the  pace  of  life  a  good  deal.  She 
«\^ould  not  let  him  try  his  luck  at  friendship  again,  but  in  the 
strangest,  slightest  ways  did  she  not  make  him  suspect  every 
now  and  then  that  he  was  in  some  sort  important  to  her,  that 
he  sometimes  preoccupied  her  against  her  will;  that  her  will 
indeed  sometimes  escaped  her,  and  failed  to  control  her  manner 
to  him? 

It  was  not  only  his  relations  to  the  beauty,  however,  hia  in- 
terest in  her  career,  or  his  perpetual  consciousness  of  Irlrs.  Els- 
mere's  cold  dislike  and  disapproval  of  his  presence  in  her  motifi- 


EGBERT  ELSMERE. 


49? 


er's  drawing-room,  that  accounted  for  Langham's  heightened 
mental  temperature  this  winter.  The  existence  of  the  proceed- 
ings of  Mr.  Hugh  Flaxman  had  a  very  considerable  share  in  it. 

*'Tell  me  about  Mr.  Langham,"  said  Mr.  Flaxman,  once  to 
Agnes  Leyburn,  in  the  early  days  of  his  acquaintance  with  the 
family ;  "is  he  an  old  friend?" 

* '  Of  Robert's, "  replied  Agnes,  her  cheerful,  impenetrable  look 
fixed  upon  the  speaker.  ''My  sister  met  him  once  for  a  week 
in  the  country  at  the  Elsmeres'.  My  mother  and  I  have  been 
only  just  introduced  to  him." 

Hugh  Flaxman  pondered  the  information  a  little. 

''Does  he  strike  you  as— well— what  shall  we  say  ?— unusual?" 

His  smile  struck  one  out  of  her. 
Even  Robert  might  admit  that,"  she  said,  demurely. 

"  Is  Elsmere  so  attached  to  him?  I  own  I  was  provoked  just 
now  by  his  tone  about  Elsmere.  I  was  remarking  on  the  evi- 
dent physical  and  mental  strain  your  brother-in-law  htd  gone 
through,  and  he  said,  with  a  nonchalance  I  can  not  convey: 
'  Yes,  it  is  astonishing  Elsmere  should  have  ventured  it.  I  con- 
fess I  often  wonder  whether  it  was  worth  while.'  '  Why? '  said 
I,  perhaps  a  little  hotly.  Well,  he  didn't  know— wouldn't  say. 
But  I  gathored  that,  according  to  him,  Elsmere  is  still  swathed 
in  such  an  unconscionable  amount  of  religion  that  the  few  rags 
and  patches  he  has  got  rid  of  ere  hardly  worth  the  discomfort 
of  the  change.  It  seemed  to  me  the  tone  of  the  very  cool  spec- 
tator, rather  than  the  friend.  However— does  your  sister  Mke 
him?" 

*'I  don't  know,"  said  Agnes,  looking  her  questioner  full  m 
the  face. 

Hugh  Flaxman's  fair  complexion  flushed  a  little.  He  got  up 
to  go. 

"He  is  one  of  the  most  extraordinarily  handsome  persons  I 
ever  saw,"  he  remarked,  as  he  buttoned  up  his  coat.  "Don't 
you  think  so?" 

"Yes,"  said  Agnes,  dubiously,  "if  he  didn't  stoop,  and  if  he 
didn't  in  general  look  half  asleep." 

Hugh  Flaxman  departed  more  puzzled  than  ever  as  to  the 
reason  for  the  constant  attendance  of  this  uncomfortable  anti- 
social person  at  the  Leyburns'  house.  Being  himself  a  man  of 
very  subtle  and  fastidious  tastes,  he  could  imagine  that  so 
original  a  suitor,  with  such  eyes,  such  an  intellectual  reputa- 
Hon  so  well  sustained  by  scantiness  of  speech  and  the  most 


498 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


picturesque  capacity  for  silence,  might  have  attractions  for  a 
romantic  and  wiUful  girl.  But  where  were  the  signs  of  it? 
Eose  rarely  talked  to  him,  and  was  always  ready  to  make  him 
the  target  of  a  sub-acid  raillery.  Agnes  was  clearly  indifferent 
to  him,  and  Mrs.  Leyburn  equally  clearly  afraid  of  him.  Mrs. 
Elsmere,  too,  seemed  to  dishke  him,  and  yet  there  he  was, 
week  after  week.   Flaxman  could  not  make  it  out. 

Then  he  tried  to  explore  the  man  himself.  He  started  vari- 
ous topics  with  him — university  reform,  pohtics,  music.  In 
vain.  In  his  most  characteristic  Oxford  days  Langham  had 
never  assumed  a  more  wholesale  ignorance  of  all  subjects  in 
heaven  and  earth,  and  never  stuck  more  pertinaciously  to  the 
flattest  forms  of  commonplace.  Flaxman  walked  away  at  last 
boiling  over.  The  man  of  parts  masquerading  as  the  fool  is 
perhaps  at  least  as  exasperating  as  the  fool  playing  at  wisdom. 

However,  he  was  not  the  only  person  irritated.  After  one  of 
these  fragments  of  conversation  Langham  also  walked  rapidly 
home  in  a  state  of  most  irrational  petulance,  his  hands  thrust 
with  energy  into  the  pockets  of  his  overcoat. 

No,  my  successful  aristocrat,  you  shall  not  have  everything 
your  own  way  so  easily  with  me  or  with  her!  You  may  break 
me,  but  you  shall  not  play  upon  me.  And  as  for  her,  I  wiU  see 
it  out — I  will  see  it  out !" 

And  he  stiff ened  himself  as  he  walked,  feeling  life  electric  all 
about  him,  and  a  strange  new  force  tinghng  in  every  vein. 

Meanwhile,  however,  Mr.  Flaxman  was  certainly  having  a 
good  deal  of  his  own  way.  Since  the  moment  when  his  aunt. 
Lady  Charlotte,  had  introduced  him  to  Miss  Leyburn — watch- 
ing him  the  while  with  a  half  smile  which  soon  broadened  into 
one  of  sly  triumph— Hugh  Flaxman  had  persuaded  himself  that 
country  houses  are  intolerable  even  in  the  shooting  season,  and 
that  Londonjs  the  only  place  of  residence  during  the  winter 
for  the  man  who  jaspires  to  govern  his  hfe  on  principles  of  rea- 
son. Through  his  influence  and  that  of  his  aimt,  Eose  and 
Agnes — Mrs.  Leyburn  never  went  out — were  being  carried  into 
all  the  high  life  that  London  can  supply  in  November  and 
January.  Wealthy,  high-born,  and  popular,  he  was  gradually 
devoting  his  advantages  in  the  freest  way  to  Eose's  service. 
He  was  an  excellent  musical  amateur,  and  he  was  always  proud 
to  play  with  her;  he  had  a  fine  country  house,  and  the  little 
rooms  on  Campden  Hill  were  almost  always  filled  with  flowers 
from  his  gardens;  he  had  a  famous  musical  library,  and  its 


BOBERT  ELSMER:B. 


treasures  were  lavished  on  the  girl  violinist ;  he  had  a  singularly 
wide  circle  of  friends,  and  with  his  whimsical  energy  he  was 
soon  inclined  to  make  kindness  to  the  two  sisters  the  one  test 
of  a  friend's  good  will. 

He  was  clearly  touched  hy  Rose ;  and  what  was  to  prevent  his 
making  an  impression  on  her  ?  To  her  sex  he  had  always  heen 
singularly  attractive.  Like  his  sister,  he  had  all  sorts  of  bright 
impulses  and  audacities  flashing  and  darting  about  him.  He 
had  a  certain  hauteur  with  men,  and  could  play  the  aristocrat 
when  he  pleased,  for  all  his  philosophical  radicalism.  But  with 
women  he  was  the  most  delightful  mixture  of  deference  and 
high  spirits.  He  loved  the  grace  of  them,  the  daintiness  of 
their  dress,  the  softness  of  their  voices.  He  would  have  done 
anything  to  please  them,  anything  to  save  them  pain.  At 
twenty-five,  when  he  was  still  '^Citizen  Flaxman"  to  his  col- 
lege friends,  and  in  the  first  fervors  of  a  poetic  defiance  of 
prejudice  and  convention,  he  had  married  a  gamekeeper's 
pretty  daughter.  She  had  died  with  her  child — died,  almost, 
poor  thing !  of  happiness  and  excitement— of  the  overgreatness 
of  Heaven's  boon  to  her.  Flaxman  had  adored  her,  and  death 
had  tenderly  embalmed  a  sentiment  to  which  hfe  might  possi- 
bly have  been  less  kind.  Since  then  he  had  lived  in  music,  let- 
ters, and  society,  refusing  out  of  a  certain  fastidiousness  to 
enter  politics,  but  welcomed  and  considered  wherever  he  went, 
tall,  good-looking,  distinguished,  one  of  the  most  agreeable  and 
courted  of  men,  and  perhaps  the  richest  parti  in  London. 

Still,  in  spite  of  it  all,  Langham  held  his  ground — Langham 
would  see  it  out !  And  indeed  Flaxman's  footing  with  the  beauty 
was  by  no  means  clear — ^least  of  all  to  himself.  She  evidently 
liked  him,  but  she  bantered  him  a  good  deal;  she  v/ould  not  be 
the  least  subdued  or  dazzled  by  his  birth  or  wealth,  or  by  those 
of  his  friends;  and  if  she  allowed  him  to  provide  her  with 
pleasures,  she  would  hardly  ever  take  his  advice,  or  knowingly 
consult  his  tastes. 

Meanwhile  she  tormented  them  both  a  good  deal  by  the 
artistic  acquaintance  she  gathered  about  her.  Mrs.  Pierson's 
world,  as  we  have  said,  contained  a  good  many  dubious  odds 
and  ends,  and  she  had  handed  them  all  over  to  Rose.  The  Ley- 
burns'  growing  intimacy  with  Mr.  Flaxman  and  his  circle,  and 
through  them  with  the  finer  types  of  the  artistic  life,  would 
naturally  and  by  degrees  have  carried  them  away  somewhai; 
from  this  earlier  circle  if  Rose  woxild  have  allowed  it.  But  sue 


500  BOBEET  ELSMEEfi.  1 

clung  persistently  to  its  most  unpromising  specimens,  partly  1 
out  of  a  natural  generosity  of  feeling,  but  partly  also  for  the  j 
sake  of  that  opposition  her  soul  loved,  her  poor,  sickly  soul,  1 
full  under  all  her  gayety  and  indifference  of  the  most  desperate  j 
doubt  and  soreness— opposition  to  Catherine,  opposition  to  Mr.  | 
Flaxman,  but,  above  all,  opposition  to  Langham.  ^ 

Flaxman  could  often  avenge  himself  on  her — or  rather  on  the 
more  obnoxious  members  of  her  following — by  dint  of  a  faculty  - 
for  light  and  stinging  repartee  which  would  send  her,  flushed 
and  biting  her  lips,  to  have  her  laugh  out  in  private.  But 
Langham  for  a  long  time  was  defenseless.  Many  of  her  friends 
in  his  opinion  were  simply  pathological  curiosities — their  vani- 
ty was  so  frenzied,  their  sensibilities  so  morbidly  developed. 
He  felt  a  doctor's  interest  in  them  coupled  with  more  than  a 
doctor's  skepticism  as  to  all  they  had  to  say  about  themselves. 
But  Eose  would  invite  them,  would  assume  a  quasi-mtimacj 
with  them ;  and  Langham  as  well  as  everybody  else  had  to  put 
up  with  it. 

Even  the  trodden  worm,  however—  And  there  came  a  time 
when  the  concentration  of  a  good  many  different  lines  of  feel-  . 
ing  in  Langham's  mind  betrayed  itself  at  last  in  a  sharp  and 
sudden  openness.  It  began  to  seem  to  him  that  she  was 
specially  bent  often  on  tormenting  him  by  these  caprices  of 
hers,  and  he  vowed  to  himself  finally,  with  an  outburst  of  irri- 
tation due  in  reality  to  a  hundred  causes,  that  he  would  assert 
himself,  that  he  would  make  an  effort  at  any  rate  to  save  her 
from  her  own  folUes. 

One  afternoon,  at  a  crowded  musical  party,  to  which  he  had 
come  much  against  his  will,  and  only  in  obedience  to  a  com- 
pulsion he  dared  not  analyze,  she  asked  him  in  passing  if  he 
would  kindly  find  Mr.  MacFadden,  a  bass  singer,  whose  name 
stood  next  on  the  programme,  and  who  was  not  to  be  seen  in 
the  drawing-room. 

Langham  searched  the  dining-room  and  the  hall,  and  at  last 
found  Mr.  MacFadden — a  fair,  flabby,  unwholesome  youth — in 
the  little  study  or  cloak-room,  in  a  state  of  collapse,  flanked  by  ^ 
whisky  and  water,  and  attended  by  two  frightened  maids,  who 
handed  over  their  charge  to  Langham  and  fled. 

Then  -it  appeared  that  the  great  man  had  been  offended  by  a 
change  in  the  programme,  which  hurt  his  vanity,  had  with- 
drawn from  the  drawing-room  on  the  brink  of  hysterics,  had 
called  for  spirits,  which  had  been  provided  for  him  with  great 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


501 


difficulty  by  Mrs.  Leyburn's  maids,  and  was  there  drinking 
himself  into  a  state  of  rage  and  rampant  dignity  which  would 
soon  have  shown  itself  in  a  melodramatic  return  to  the  draw- 
ing-room, and  a  pubUc  refusal  to  sing  at  all  in  a  house  where 
art  had  been  outraged  in  his  person. 

Some  of  the  old  disciplinary  instincts  of  the  Oxford  tutor 
awoke  in  Langham  at  the  sight  of  the  creature,  and,  with  a 
prompt  sternness  which  amazed  himself,  and  nearly  set  Mac- 
Fadden  whimpering,  he  got  rid  of  the  man,  shut  the  hall  door 
on  him,  and  went  back  to  the  drawing-room. 

"  Well  ?"  said  Rose,  in  anxiety,  coming  up  to  him. 
I  have  sent  him  away,"  he  said,  briefly,  an  eye  of  unusual 
quickness  and  brightness  looking  down  upon  her;  he  was  in 
no  condition  to  sing.  He  chose  to  be  offended,  apparently, 
because  he  was  put  out  of  his  turn,  and  has  been  giving  the 
servants  trouble." 

Eose  flushed  deeply,  and  drew  herself  up  with  a  look  half 
trouble,  half  defiance,  at  Langham. 

trust  you  will  not  ask  him  again,"  he  said,  with  the 
same  decision.  "  And  if  I  might  say  so,  there  are  one  or  two 
people  still  here  whom  I  should  like  to  see  you  exclude  at  the 
same  time." 

They  had  withdrawn  into  the  bow-window  out  of  ear  shot  of 
the  rest  of  the  room.  Langham's  look  turned  significantly  to- 
ward a  group  near  the  piano.  It  contained  one  or  two  men 
whom  he  regarded  as  belonging  to  a  low  type;  men  who,  if  it 
suited  their  purpose,  would  be  quite  ready  to  tell  or  invent 
malicious  stories  of  the  girl  they  were  now  flattering,  and 
whose  standards  and  instincts  represented  a  coarser  world  than 
Eose  in  reality  knew  anything  about. 

Her  eyes  followed  his. 

**Iknow,"  she  said,  petulantly,  ''that  you  dislike  artists. 
They  are  not  your  world.   They  are  mine." 

' '  I  dislike  artists  ?  What  nonsense,  too  !  To  me  personally 
these  men's  ways  don't  matter  in  the  least.  They  go  their 
road  and  I  mine.  But  I  deeply  resent  any  danger  of  discom- 
fort and  annoyance  to  you  1" 

He  still  stood  frowning,  a  glow  of  indignant  energy  showing 
itself  in  his  attitude,  his  glance.  She  could  not  know  that  he 
was  at  that  moment  vividly  realizing  the  drunken  scene  that 
might  have  taken  place  in  her  presence  if  he  had  not  succeeded 
in  getting  tha.t  man  safely  out  of  the  house.  But  she  felt  that 


502 


EGBERT  ELSMERE. 


he  was  angry,  and  mostly  angry  with  her,  and  there  was  some- 
thing  so  piquant  and  unexpected  in  his  anger  ! 

am  afraid,"  she  said,  with  a  queer  sudden  submissive- 
ness,  you  have  been  going  through  something  very  disagreea- 
ble. I  am  very  sorry.  Is  it  my  fault  ?"  she  added,  with  a 
whimsical  flash  of  eye,  half  fun,  haK  serious. 
He  could  hardly  believe  his  ears. 
Yes,  it  is  your  fault,  I  think  !"  he  answered  her,  amazed 
at  his  own  boldness.  "Not  that  I  was  annoyed— heavens  ! 
what  does  that  matter  ?— but  that  you  and  your  mother  and 
sister  were  very  near  an  unpleasant  scene.  You  will  not  take 
advice,  Miss  Leyburn— you  will  take  your  own  way  in  spite  of 
what  any  one  else  can  say  or  hint  to  you,  and  some  day  you 
will  expose  yourself  to  annoyance  when  there  is  no  one  near  to 
protect  you  !" 

''Well,  if  so,  it  won't  be  for  want  of  a  mentor,"  she  said, 
dropping  him  a  mock  courtesy.  But  her  lip  trembled  under 
its  smile,  and  her  tone  had  not  lost  its  gentleness. 

At  that  moment  Mr.  Flaxman,  who  had  gradually  estabUshed 
himself  as  the  joint  leader  of  these  musical  afternoons,  came 
forward  to  summon  Eose  to  a  quartet.  He  looked  from  one 
to  the  other,  a  little  surprise  penetrating  through  his  suavity 
of  manner. 

Am  I  interrupting  you  ?" 

*'Not  at  all,"  said  Eose;  then,  turning  back  to  Langham, 
she  said,  in  a  hurried  whisper:  "  Don't  say  anything  about  the 
wretched  man;  it  would  make  mamma  nervous.  He  sha'n't 
come  here  again." 

Mr.  Flaxman  waited  till  the  whisper  was  over,  and  then  led 
her  off,  with  a  change  of  manner  which  she  immediately  per- 
ceived, and  which  lasted  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 

liangham  went  home,  and  sat  brooding  over  the  fire.  Her 
voice  had  not  been  so  kind,  her  look  so  womanly,  for  months. 
Had  she  been  reading  "Shirley,"  and  would  she  have  liked 
him  to  play  Louis  Moore  ?  He  went  into  a  fit  of  silent,  con- 
vulsive laughter  as  the  idea  occurred  to  him. 

Some  secret  instinct  made  him  keep  away  from  her  for  a 
time.  At  last,  one  Friday  afternoon,  as  he  emerged  from  the 
museum,  where  he  had  been  collating  the  MSS.  of  some  ob- 
scure Alexandrian,  the  old  craving  returned  with  added 
istrength,  and  he  turned  involuntarily  westward. 

An  acquaintance  of  his,  recently  made  in  the  course  of  work 


EGBERT  ELSMEBE. 


603 


at  the  museum,fa  young  Eussian  professor,  ran  after  him,  and 
walked  with  him.  Presently  they  passed  a  poster  on  the  wall, 
which  contained  in  enormous  letters  the  announcement  of 
Mme.  Desforets's  approaching  visit  to  London,  a  list  of  plays, 
and  the  dates  of  performances. 

The  young  Euf sian  suddenly  stopped  and  stood  pointing  at 
the  advertisement,  with  shaking  derisive  finger,  his  eyes 
aflame,  the  whole  man  quivering  with  what  looked  like  antago- 
nism and  hate. 

Then  he  broke  into  a  fierce  fiood  of  French.  Langham  list- 
ened till  they  had  passed  Piccadilly,  passed  the  park,  and  till 
the  young  sat^ant  turned  southward  toward  his  Brompton 
lodgings. 

Then  Langham  slowly  cUmhed  Campden  Hill,  meditating. 
His  thoughts  were  an  odd  mixture  of  the  things  he  had  just 
heard,  and  of  a  scene  at  Murewell  long  ago  when  a  girl  had 
denounced  him  for  "  calumny." 

At  the  door  of  Lerwick  Gardens  he  was  informed  that  Mrs. 
Leyburn  was  upstairs  with  an  attack  of  bronchitis.  But  the 
servant  thought  the  young  ladies  were  at  home.  Would  he 
come  in  ?  He  stood  irresolute  a  moment,  then  went  in  on  a 
pretext  of  inquiiy." 

The  maid  threw  open  the  drawing-room  door,  and  there  was 
Eose  sitting  well  into  the  fire— for  it  was  a  raw  February  after- 
noon— with  a  book. 

She  received  him  with  all  her  old  hard  brightness.  He  was, 
indeed,  instantly  §orry  that  he  had  made  his  way  in.  Tyrant ! 
was  she  displeased  because  he  had  slipped  his  chain  for  rather 
longer  than  usual  ? 

However,  he  sat  down,  delivered  his  book,  and  then  talked 
first  about  her  mother's  illness.  They  had  been  anxious,  she 
said,  but  the  doctor,  who  had  just  taken  his  departure,  had  now 
completely  reassured  them. 

"  Then  you  will  be  able  probably  after  all  to  put  in  an  ap- 
pearance at  Lady  Charlotte's  this  evening  ?"  he  asked  her. 

The  omnivorous  Lady  Charlotte  of  course  had  made  acquaint- 
ance with  him  in  the  Ley  burns'  drawing-room,  as  she  did  with 
everybody  who  crossed  her  path,  and  three  days  before  he  had 
received  a  card  from  her  for  this  evening. 

* '  Oh,  yes !  But  I  have  had  to  miss  a  rehearsal  this  afternoon. 
That  concert  at  Searle  House  is  becoming  a  great  nuisance." 
It  will  be  a  brilliant  affair,  I  suppose.   Princes  on  one  side 


504 


ROBEKT  ELSMERB, 


of  you— and  Albani  on  the  other.  I  see  they  have  given  you 
the  most  conspicuous  part  as  violinist." 

Yes,"  she  said,  with  a  little  satirical  tightening  of  the  lip. 

Yes— I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  much  flattered." 
Of  course,"  he  said,  smiling,  but  embarrassed.      To  many 
people  you  must  be  at  this  moment  one  of  the  most  enviable 
persons  in  the  world.   A  delightful  art — and  every  opportunity 
to  make  it  tell !" 

There  was  a  pause.   She  looked  into  the  fire. 

don't  know  whether  it  is  a  delightful  art,"  she  said, 
presently,  stifling  a  little  yawn.  "  I  believe  I  am  getting  very 
tired  of  London.  Sometimes  I  think  I  shouldn't  be  very  sorry 
to  find  myself  suddenly  spirited  back  to  Burwood !" 

Langham  gave  vent  to  some  incredulous  interjection.  He 
had  apparently  surprised  her  in  a  fit  of  ennui  which  was  rare 
with  her. 

*'0h,  no,  not  yet!"  she  said,  suddenly,  with  a  return  of 
animation.  "Madame  Desforets  comes  next  week,  and  I  am 
to  see  her."  She  drew  herself  up  and  turned  a  beaming  face 
upon  him.  Was  there  a  shaft  of  mischief  in  her  eye?  He 
could  not  tell.   The  fire-light  was  perplexing. 

"You  are  to  see  her?"  he  said,  slowly.  "Is  she  coming 
here  ?" 

"  I  hope  so.  Mrs.  Pierson  is  to  bring  her.  I  want  mamma 
to  have  the  amusement  of  seeing  her.  My  artistic  friends  are 
a  kind  of  tonic  to  her — they  excite  her  so  much.  She  regards 
them  as  a  sort  of  show— much  as  you  do,  in  fact,  only  in  a 
more  charitable  fashion." 

But  he  took  no  notice  of  what  she  was  saying. 

"  Madame  Desforets  is  coming  here  ?"  he  sharply  repeated, 
bending  forward,  a  curious  accent  in  his  tone. 

"  Yes  !"  she  repKed,  with  apparent  surprise.  Then,  with  a 
careless  smile:  "  Oh,  I  remember  when  we  were  at  Murewell, 
you  were  exercised  that  we  should  know  her.  Well,  Mr.  Lang- 
ham,  I  told  you  then  that  you  were  only  echoing  unworthy  g03- 
sip.  I  am  in  the  same  mind  stiU.  I  have  seen  her,  and  you 
haven't.  To  me  she  is  the  greatest  actress  in  the  world,  and 
an  ill-used  woman  to  boot  !" 

Her  tone  had  warmed  with  every  sentence.  It  struck  him 
that  she  had  willfully  brought  up  the  topic— that  it  gave  her 
pleasure  to  quarrel  v^^ith  him. 

He  put  down  his  hat  deliberately,  got  up,  and  stood  with  his 


EGBERT  ELSMERE. 


505 


back  to  the  fire.   She  looked  up  at  him  curiously.   But  the 
dark,  regular  face  was  almost  hidden  from  her. 

*^It  is  strange,"  he  said,  slowly,  ''very  strange— that  you 
should  have  told  me  this  at  this  moment!  Miss  Leyburn,  a 
great  deal  of  the  truth  about  Madame  Desf  orets  I  could  neither 
tell,  nor  could  you  hear.  There  are  charges  against  her  proved 
in  open  court,  again  and  again,  which  I  could  not  even  men- 
tion in  your  presence.  But  one  thing  I  can  speak  of.  Do  you 
know  the  story  of  the  sister  at  St.  Petersburg 

''I  know  no  stories  against  Madame  Desforets,"  said  Eose, 
loftily,  her  quickened  breath  responding  to  the  energy  of  his 
tone.    'M  have  always  chosen  not  to  know  them." 

"  The  newspapers  were  full  of  this  particular  story  just  be- 
fore Christmas.  I  should  have  thought  it  must  have  reached 
you."  • 

''I  did  not  see  it,"  she  replied,  stiffly;  **and  I  can  not  see 
what  good  purpose  is  to  be  served  by  your  repeating  it  to  me, 
Mr.  Langham." 

Langham  could  have  smiled  at  her  petulance,  if  he  had  not 
for  once  been  determined  and  in  earnest. 

''You  will  let  me  tell  it,  I  hope  ?"  he  said,  quietly.  " I  wiU 
tell  it  so  that  it  shall  not  offend  your  ears.  As  it  happens,  I 
myself  thought  it  incredible  at  the  time.  But,  by  an  odd  coin- 
cidence, it  has  just  this  afternoon  been  repeated  to  me  by  a 
man  who  was  an  eye-witness  of  part  of  it." 

Eose  was  silent.  Her  attitude  was  hauteur  itself,  but  she 
made  no  further  active  opposition. 

' '  Three  months  ago, "  he  began,  speaking  with  some  difficulty, 
but  still  with  a  suppressed  force  of  feeling  which  amazed  his 
hearer,  "  Madame  Desforets  was  acting  in  St.  Petersburg.  She 
had  with  her  a  large  company,  and  among  them  her  own  young 
sister,  Ehse  Eomney,  a  girl  of  eighteen.  This  girl  had  been 
always  kept  away  from  Madame  Desforets  by  her  parents,  who 
had  never  been  sufficiently  consoled  by  their  eldest  daugbter's 
artistic  success  for  the  infamy  of  her  life," 

Eose  started  indignantly.  Langham  gave  her  no  time  to 
speak. 

"Elise  Eomney,  however,  had  developed  a  passion  for  the 
stage.  Her  parents  were  respectable— and  you  know  young 
girls  in  France  are  brought  up  strictly.  She  knew  next  to 
nothing  of  her  sister's  escapades.  But  she  knew  that  she  was 
held  to  be  the  greatest  actress  in  Europe— the  photographs  in 


506  ROBERT  ELSMERE. 

the  shops  told  her  that  she  was  beautiful.  She  conceived  a  ro- 
mantic passion  for  the  woman  whom  she  had  last  seen  when 
she  was  a  child  of  five,  and  actuated  partly  by  this  hungry 
affection,  partly  by  her  own  longing  wish  to  become  an  actress, 
she  escaped  from  home  and  joined  Madame  Desforets  in  the 
south  of  France.  Madame  Desforets  seems  at  first  to  have  been 
pleased  to  have  her.  The  girl's  adoration  pleased  her  vanity. 
Her  presence  with  her  gave  her  new  opportunities  of  posing. 
I  beheve,"  and  Langham  gave  a  little  dry  laugh,  *Vthey 
were  photographed  together  at  Marseilles  with  their  arms 
round  each  other's  necks,  and  the  photograph  was  an  immense 
success.  However,  on  the  way  to  St.  Petersburg,  difficulties 
arose.  Elise  was  pretty,  in  a  blonde  childish  way,  and  she 
caught  the  attention  of  i\iejeune  premier  of  the  company,  a 
man"— the  speaker  became  somewhat  embarrassed— ''whom 
Madame  Desforets  seems  to  have  regarded  as  her  particular 
property.  There  were  scenes  at  different  towns  on  the  journey. 
Elise  became  frightened— wanted  to  go  home.  But  the  elder 
sister,  having  begun  tormenting  her,  seems  to  have  determined 
to  keep  her  hold  on  her,  as  a  cat  keeps  and  tortures  a  mouse- 
mainly  for  the  sake  of  annoying  the  man  of  whom  she  was 
jealous.  They  arrived  at  St.  Petersburg  in  the  depth  of  winter. 
The  girl  was  worn  out  with'traveHng,  unhappy,  and  ill.  One 
night  in  Madame  Desforets's  apartment  there  was  a  supper- 
party,  and  after  it  a  horrible  quarrel.  No  one  exactly  knows 
what  happened.  But  toward  twelve  o'clock  that  night  Ma- 
dame Desforets  turned  her  young  sister  in  evening-dress,  a 
light  shawl  round  her,  out  into  the  snowy  streets  of  St.  Peters- 
burg, barred  the  door  behind  her,  and  revolver  in  hand  dared 
the  wretched  man  who  had  caused  the  fracas  to  follow  her." 

Eose  sat  immovable.  She  had  grown  pale,  but  the  fire-light 
was  not  revealing. 

Langbam  turned  away  from  her  toward  the  blaze,  holding 
out  his  hands  to  it  mechanically. 

''The  poor  child, "he  said,  after  a  pause,  in  a  lower  voice, 
*'  wandered  about  for  some  hours.  It  was  a  frightful  night— 
the  great  capital  was  quite  strange  to  her.  She  was  insulted 
—fled  this  way  andthat— grew  benumbed  with  cold  and  terror, 
and  was  found  unconscious  in  the  early  morning  vmder  the 
archway  of  a  house  some  two  miles  from  her  sister's  lodgings.'^ 

There  was  a  dead  silence.  Then  Eose  drew  a  long,  quiver- 
ing breath, 


ROBERT  ELSMERE.  507 

r 

**  I  do  not  believe  it  she  said,  passionately.  "I  can  not  be- 
lieve it  f 

*'It  was  amply  proved  at  the  time,"  said  Langham,  dryly, 

though  of  course  Madame  Desforets  tried  to  put  her  own 
color  on  it.  But  I  told  you  I  had  private  information.  On  one 
of  the  floors  of  the  house  where  Elise  Eomney  was  picked  up, 
lived  a  young  university  professor.  He  is  editing  an  impor- 
tant Greek  text,  and  has  lately  had  business  at  the  museum.  1 
made  friends  with  him  there.  He  walked  home  with  me  this 
afternoon,  saw  the  announcement  of  Madame  Desforets's  com- 
ing, and  poured  out  the  story.  He  and  his  wif e*^nursed  the  un- 
fortunate girl  with  devotion.  She  lived  just  a  week,  and  died 
of  inflammation  of  the  lungs.  I  never  in  my  life  heard  any- 
thing so  pitiful  as  her  description  of  her  delirium,  her  terror, 
her  appeals,  her  shivering  misery  of  cold." 

There  was  a  pause. 
She  is  not  a  woman,"  he  said,  presently,  between  his  teeth. 

She  is  a  wild  beast." 

Still  there  was  silence,  and  still  he  held  out  his  hand  to  the 
flame  which  Eose  too  was  staring  at.   At  last  he  turned  round. 

I  have  told  you  a  shocking  story,"  he  said,  hurriedly.  Per- 
haps I  ought  not  to  have  done  it.  But,  as  you  sat  there  talk- 
ing so  hghtly,  so  gayly,  it  suddenly  became  to  me  utterly  in- 
tolerable that  that  woman  should  ever  sit  here  in  this  room- 
talk  to  you— call  you  by  your  name— laugh  with  -you— touch 
your  hand!  Not  even  your  willfulness  shall  carry  you  so  far 
— ^you  shall  not  do  it !" 

He  hardly  knew  what  he  said.  He  was  driven  on  by  a  pas- 
sionate sense  of  physical  repulsion  to  the  notion  of  any  contact 
between  her  pure  fair  youth,  and  something  malodorous  and 
corrupt.  And  there  was,  besides,  a  wild  unique  excitement  in 
claiming  for  once  to  stay— to  control  her. 

Rose  lifted  her  head  slowly.  The  fire  was  bright.  He  saw 
the  tears  in  her  eyes,  tears  of  intolerable  pity  for  another  girl's 
awful  story.  But  through  the  tears  something  gleamed— a 
kind  of  exultation— the  exultation  which  the  magician  feels 
when  he  has  called  spirits  from  the  vasty  deep,  and  after  long 
doubt  and  difficult  invocation  they  rise  at  last  before  his  eyes. 

^'I  will  never  see  her  again,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  wavering 
voice,  but  she  too  was  hardly  conscious  of  her  own  words. 
Their  looks  were  on  each  other;  the  ruddy,  capricious  hght 
touched  her  glowing  cheeks,  her  straight-lined  grace,  her 


508 


BOBBRT  ELSMEJRE, 


white  hand.  Suddenly  from  the  gulf  of  another's  misery  into 
which  they  had  both  been  looking  there  had  sprung  up,  by  the 
strange  contrariety  of  human  things,  a  heat  and  intoxication 
of  feeling,  wrapping  them  round,  blotting  out  the  rest  of  the 
world  from  them  like  a'golden  mist.  **Be  always  thus!"  her 
parted  lips,  her  liquid  eyes  were  saying  to  him.  His  breath 
seemed  to  fail  him ;  he  was  lost  in  bewilderment. 

There  were  sounds  outside — Catherine's  voice.  He  roused 
himself  with  a  supreme  effort. 

' '  To-night— at  Lady  Charlotte's  ?" 
To-night,'^ she  said,  and  held  out  her  hand. 

A  sudden  madness  seized  him— he  stooped— his  lips  touched 
it—it  was  hastily  drawn  away,  and  the  door  opened. 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 

''In  the  first  place,  my  dear  aunt,"  said  Mr.  Flaxman, 
throwing  himself  back  in  his  chair  in  front  of  Lady  Charlotte's 
drawing-room  fire,  you  may  spare  your  admonitions,  because 
ifc  is  becoming  more  and  more  clear  to  me  that,  whatever  my 
sentiments  may  be,  Miss  Leyburn  never  gives  a  serious  thought 
to  me. 

He  turned  to  look  at  his  companion  over  his  shoulder.  His 
tone  and  manner  were  perfectly  gay,  and  Lady  Charlotte  was 
puzzled  by  him. 

''Stuff  and  nonsense!"  replied  the  lady  with  her  usual  em- 
phasis; ''I  never  flatter  you,  Hugh,  and  I  don't  mean  to  begin 
now,  but  it  would  be  mere  folly  not  to  recognize  that  you  have 
advantages  which  must  tell  on  the  mind  of  any  girl  in  Miss 
Ley  burn's  position." 

Hugh  Eiaxman  rose,  and,  standing  before  the  fire  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  made  what  seemed  to  be  a  close  inspec- 
tion of  his  irreproachable  trouser  knees. 

"I  am  sorry  for  your  theory.  Aunt  Charlotte,"  he  said,  stiQ 
stooping,  "but  Miss  Leyburn  doesn't  care  twopence  about  my 
advantages." 

"  Very  proper  of  you  to  say  so,"  returned  Lady  Charlotte, 
sharply;  "the  remark,  however,  my  good  sir,  does  more  credit 
to  your  heart  than  your  head." 

"In  the  next  place,"  he  went  on  undisturbed,  "why  you 
should  have  done  your  best  this  whole  winter  to  throw  Miss 
Leyburn  and  me  together,  if  you  meant  in  the  end  to  oppose 
my  marrying  her,  I  don't  quit©  see,'* 


ROBEBT  ELSMERE. 


509 


He  looked  up  smiling.  Lady  Charlotte  reddened  ever  so 
slightly. 

"You  know  my  weaknesses,"  she  said,  presently,  with  an 
effrontery  which  delighted  her  nephew.  ' '  She  is  my  latest  nov- 
elty, she  excites  me,  I  can't  do  without  her.  As  to  you,  I  can't 
remember  that  you  wanted  much  encouragement,  but,  I  ac- 
knowledge, after  all  these  years  of  resistance— resistance  to  my 
most  legitimate  eiforts  to  dispose  of  you— there  was  a  certain 
piquancy  in  seeing  you  caught  at  last !" 

"  Upon  my  word!"  he  said,  throwing  back  his  head  with  a 
not  very  cordial  laugh,  in  which,  however,  his  aunt  joined.  She 
was  sitting  opposite  to  him,  her  powerful,  loosely  gloved  hands 
crossed  over  the  rich  velvet  of  her  dress,  her  fair  large  face  and 
grayish  hair  surmounted  by  a  mighty  cap,  as  vigorous,  shrewd, 
and  individual  a  type  of  English  middle  age  as  could  be  found. 
The  room  behind  her  and  the  second  and  third  drawing-rooms 
were  brilliantly  lighted.  Mr.  Wynnstay  was  enjoying  a  cigar 
in  peace  in  the  smoking-room,  while  his  wife  and  nephew  were 
awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  evening's  guests  upstairs. 

Lady  Charlotte's  mind  had  been  evidently  much  perturbed 
by  the  conversation  with  her  nephew  of  which  we  are  merely 
describing  the  latter  half.  She  was  laboring  under  an  uncom- 
fortable sense  of  being  hoist  with  her  own  petard — an  uncom- 
fortable memory  of  a  certain  warning  of  her  husband's,  deliv- 
ered at  Murewell. 

*'And  now,"  said  Mr.  Flaxman,  having  confessed  in  so 
many  words  that  you  have  done  your  best  to  bring  me  up  to 
the  fence,  will  you  kindly  recapitulate  the  arguments  why  in 
your  opinion  I  should  not  jump  it  ?" 

Society,  amusement,  flirtation,  are  one  thing,"  she  replied, 
with  judicial  imperativeness,  marriage  is  another.  In  these 
democratic  days  we  must  know  everybody;  we  should  only 
marry  our  equals." 

The  instant,  however,  the  words  were  out  of  her  mouth,  she 
regretted  them.   Mr.  Flaxman's  expression  changed. 

I  do  not  agree  with  you,"  he  said,  calmly,  and  you  know 
I  do  not.  You  could  not,  I  imagine,  have  relied  much  upon 
that  argument." 

*'Good  gracious,  Hugh!"  cried  Lady  Charlotte,  crossly; 

you  talk  as  if  I  were  really  the  old  campaigner  some  people 
suppose  me  to  be.  I  have  been  amusing  myself— I  have  liked 
to  see  you  amused.  And  it  is  only  the  last  few  weeks  since  y^n 


510 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


have  begun  to  devote  yourseK  so  tremendously,  that  I  have 
come  to  take  the  thing  serious  at  all.  I  confess,  if  you  hke, 
that  I  have  got  you  into  the  scrape— now  I  want  to  get  you  out 
of  it !  I  am  not  thin-skinned,  but  I  hate  family  unpleasant- 
nesses—and you  know  what  the  duke  will  say." 

The  duke  bd-translated !"  said  Flaxman,  coolly.  Noth- 
ing of  what  you  have  said  or  could  say  on  this  point,  my  dear 
aunt,  has  the  smallest  weight  with  me.  But  Providence  has 
been  kinder  to  you  and  the  duke  than  you  deserve.  Miss  Ley- 
bum  does  not  care  for  me,  and  she  does  care— or  I  am  very 
much  mistaken— for  somebody  else." 

He  pronounced  the  words  deliberately,  watching  their  effect 
upon  her. 

What,  that  Oxford  nonentity,  Mr.  Langham,  theElsmeres' 
friend  ?  Ridiculous !  What  attraction  could  a  man  of  that  type 
have  for  a  girl  of  hers?" 

I  am  not  bound  to  supply  an  answer  to  that  question,"  re- 
plied her  nephew.  ''However,  he  is  not  a  nonentity.  Far 
from  it!  Ten  years  ago,  when  I  was  leaving  Cambridge,  he 
was  certainly  one  of  the  most  distinguished  of  the  young  Ox- 
ford tutors." 

*'  Another  instance  of  what  university  reputation  is  worth!" 
said  Lady  Charlotte,  scornfully.  It  was  clear  that  even  in  the> 
case  of  a  beauty  whom  she  thought  it  beneath  him  to  marry, 
she  was  not  pleased  to  see  her  nephew  ousted  by  the  force 
majeure  of  a  rival— and  that  a  rival  whom  she  regarded  as  an 
utter  nobody,  having  neither  marketable  eccentricity,  nor  fam- 
ily, nor  social  briUiance  to  recommend  him. 

Flaxman  understood  her  perplexity,  and  watched  her  with 
critical  and  amused  eyes. 

I  should  Hke  to  know,"  he  said  presently,  with  a  curious 
slowness  and  suavity,  ''I  should  greatly  like  to  know  why 
you  asked  him  here  to-night?" 

''You  know  perfectly  well  that  I  should  ask  anybody— r. 
convict,  a  crossing-sweeper — if  I  happened  to  be  half  an  hour 
in  the  same  room  with  him !" 

Flaxman  laughed. 

"Well,  it  may  be  convenient  to-night,"  he'said,  reflectively. 
*'  What  are  we  to  do— some  thought-reading?"  - 

"Yes.  It  isn't  a  crush.  I  have  only  asked  about  thirty  or 
forty  people.   Mr.  Denman  is  to  manage  it." 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


511 


She  mentioned  an  amateur  thought-reader  g?eatly  in  request 
at  the  moment. 

Flaxman  cogitated  for  awhile,  and  then  propounded  a  httl© 
plan  to  his  aunt,  to  which  she,  after  some  demur,  agreed. 

"  I  want  to  make  a  few  notes,''  he  said,  dryly/  when  it  was 
arranged;  I  should  be  glad  to  satisfy  myself." 

When  the  Misses  Leyburn  were  announced,  Rose,  though  the 
younger,  came  in  first.   She  always  took  the  lead  by  a  sort  of 
natural  right,  and  Agnes  never  dreamed  of  protesting.  To- 
night the  sisters  were  in  white.    Some  soft  creair  j  !^biS  was 
folded  and  draped  about  Rose's  slim,  shapely  figure  in  such  a 
way  as  to  bring  out  all  its  charming  roundness  and  grace.  Her 
^eck  and  arms  bore  the  challenge  of  the  dress  victoriously.  Her 
M-gold  hair  gleamed  in  the  light  of  Lady  Charlotte's  innu- 
merable candles.   A  knot  of  dusky  blue  feathers  on  her  shoul- 
der, and  a  Japanese  fan  of  the  same  color,  gave  just  that  touch 
of  purpose  and  art  which  the  spectator  seems  to  claim  as  the 
tribute  answering  to  his  praise  in  the  dress  of  a  young  girl.  She 
moved  with  perfect  self-possession,  distributing  a  few  smiling 
looks  to  the  people  she  knew  as  she  advanced  toward  Lady 
Charlotte.  Any  one  with  a  discerning  eye  could  have  seen  that 
she  was  in  that  stage  of  youth  when  a  beautiful  woman  is  like 
a  statue  to  which  the  master  is  giving  the  finishing  touches 
Life,  the  sculptor,  had  beenrvj^  work  upon  her,  refining  here 
softening  there,  planing  awayjawkardness,  emphasizing  grace, 
disengaging  as  it  were,  week  4)y  week,  and  month  by  month, 
all  the  beauty  of  which  the  original  conception  was  capable. 
And  the  process  is  one  attended  always  by  a  glow  and  sparkle 
a  kind  of  effluence  of  youth  and  pleasure,  which  makes  beauty 
more  beautiful  and  grace  more  graceful. 

The  little  murmur  and  rustle  of  persons  turning  to  look, 
which  had  already  begun  to  mark  her  entrance  into  a  room, 
surrounded  Rose  as  she  walked  up  to  Lady  Charlotte.  Mr. 
Flaxman,  who  had  been  standing  absently  silent,  woke  up 
directly  she  appeared,  and  went  to  greet  her  before  his  aunt. 

You  failed  us  at  rehearsal,"  he  said,  with  smiling  reproach; 
we  were  all  at  sixes  and  sevens. " 

"  I  had  a  sick  mother,  unfortunately,  who  kept  me  at  home. 
Lady  Charlotte,  Catberipe  nnuidn't  ^ome.  A^nes  and  I  arf» 
alone  in  the  world.   Will  you  chaperon  us 

''I  don't  kr.]ow  whether  I  will  accept  the  responsibility  to- 
^igbt-"4ii  that  new  gown,"  replied  Lady  Charlotte,  grimly, 


512  ROBERT  ELSMERE. 

putting  up  her  eyeglass  to  look  at  it  and  the  wearer.  Rose 
bore  the  scrutiny  with  a  light,  smiling  silence,  even  though  she 
knew  Mr.  Flaxman  was  looking,  too. 

On  the  contrary,"  she  said,    one  always  feels  so  particu- 
iarly  good  and  prim  in  a  new  frock." 

Really?  I  should  have  thought  it  one  of  Satan  s  likeliest 
moments,"  said  Flaxman,  laughing-his  eyes,  however,  the 
while  saying  quit^  other  things  to  her,  as  they  finished  their 
napection  of  her  dress. 

Lady  Charlotte  threw  a  sharp  glance  first  at  him  and  then  i 
At  Rose's  smiling  ease,  before  she  hurried  off  to  other  guests. 

I  have  made  a  muddle  as  usual,"  she  said  to  herself  m  dis- 
gust    perhaps  even  a  worse  one  than  I  thought !" 

Whatever  might  be  Hugh  Flaxman's  state  of  mind,  however, 
he  never  showed  gi^eater  self-possession  than  on  this  particular ' 
evening. 

A  few  minutes  after  Eose's  entry  he  introduced  her  for  the ; 
firet  time  to  bis  sister,  Lady  Helen.  The  Varleys  had  only  just  ■ 
come  up  to  town  for  the  opening  of  Parliament,  and  Lady 
Helen  had  come  to-night  to  Martin  Street,  all  ardor  to  see 
Hugh's  new  adoration,  and  the  girl  whom  all  the  world  was  he- 
ginning  to  talk  about— both  as  a  beauty  and  as  an  artist.  She 
rushed  at  Rose,  if  any  word  so  violent  can  be  applied  to  any- 
thing so  light  and  airy  as  Lady  Helen's  movements,  caught  the 
girl's  hands  in  both  hers,  and,  gazing  up  at  her  with  undis- 
guised admiration,  said  to  her  the  prettiest,  daintiest,  most' 
effusive  things  possible.   Rose-who  with  all  her  hthe  shapeli< 
ness  looked  overtall  and  even  a  trifle  stiff  beside  the  tiny,  bird-; 
like  'Lady  Helen— took  the  advances  of  Hugh  Flaxman's  sister  i 
with  a  pretty  flush  of  flattered  pride.   She  looked  down  at  thb 
small,  radiant  creature  with  soft  and  friendly  eyes,  and  Hugh 
Faxman  stood  by,  so  far  well  pleased. 

Then  he  went  off  to  fetch  Mr.  Denman,  the  hero  of  the  even- 
ing to  be  introduced  to  her.  While  he  was  away,  Agnes,  who 
was  behind  her  sister,  saw  Rose's  eyes  wandering  from  Lady' 
Helen  to  the  door,  restlessly  searching  and  then  returmng. 

Presently  through  the  growing  crowd  round  the  entrance 
Agnes  spied  a  well-known  form  emerging. 

"Mr.  Langham !  But  Rose  never  told  me  he  was  to  be  here 
to-night,  and  how  dreadful  he  looks !" 

Agnes  was  so  startled  that  her  eyes  followed  Langham  closdy 
aeroBB  the  room.   Rose  had  seen  him  at  once;  and  they  h«* 


BOBERT  ELSMERE. 


513 


greeted  each  other  across  the  crowd.  Agnes  was  absorbed, 
trying  to  analyze  what  had  struck  her  so.  The  face  was  al- 
ways melancholy,  always  pale,  but  to  night  it  was  ghastly, 
and  from  the  whiteness  of  cheek  and  brow,  the  eyes,  the  jet- 
black  hair  stood  out  in  intense  and  disagreeable  relief.  She 
would  have  remarked  on  it  to  Rose,  but  that  Rose's  attention 
was  claimed  by  the  young  thought  reader,  Mr.  Denman,  whom 
Mr.  Flaxman  had  brought  up.  Mr.  Denman  was  a  fair-haired 
young  Hercules,  whose  tremulous,  agitated  manner  contrasted 
oddly  with  his  athlete's  looks.  Among  other  magnetisms  he 
was  clearly  open  to  the  magnetism  of  women,  and  he  stayed 
talking  to  Rose,  staring  furtively  at  her  the  while  from  under 
his  heavy  lids— much  longer  than  the  girl  thought  fair. 

''Have  you  seen  any  experiments  in  the  working  of  this  new 
force  before?"  he  asked  her,  with  a  solemnity  which  sat  oddly 
on  his  commonplace  bearded  face. 

*'0h,  yes!"  she  said,  flippantly.  ''We  have  tried  it  some- 
times.  It  is  very  good  fun. " 

He  drew  himself  up.  ''Not  fun,''  he  said,  impressively, 
*'not  fun.  Thought-reading  wants  seriousness;  the  most  tre- 
mendous things  depend  upon  it.  If  established  it  will  revolu- 
tionize our  whole  views  of  life.  Even  a  Huxley  could  not  denv 
that  I" 

She  studied  him  with  mocking  eyes.    ^'  Do  you  imagine  this 
party  to  night  looks  very  serious?" 
His  face  fell. 

"One  can  seldom  get  people  to  take  it  scientifically,"  he 
admitted,  sighing.  Rose,  impatiently,  thought  him  a  most 
preposterous  young  man.  Why  was  he  not  cricketing,  or 
shooting,  or  exploring,  or  using  the  muscles  Nature  had  given 
him  so  amply,  to  some  decent  practical  purpose,  instead  of 
making  a  business  out  of  ruining  his  own  nerves  and  other  peo- 
ple's night  after  night  in  hot  drawing-rooms?  And  when  would 
he  go  away? 

"Come,  Mr.  Denman,"  said  Flaxman,  laying  hands  upon 
him ;  "the  audience  is  about  collected,  I  think.  Ah,  there  you 
are !"  and  he  gave  Langham  a  cool  greeting.  "  Have  you  seen 
anything  yet  of  these  fashionable  dealings  with  the  devil?" 

"  Nothing.   Are  you  a  believer?" 

Flaxman  shrugged  his  shoulders.    *'I  never  refuse  an  ex- 
periment of  any  kind,"  he  added,  with  an  odd  change  of  voice. 
Opme,  Denman." 


gj4.  KOBEBT  ELSMEEB. 

And  the  two  went  off.  Langham  came  to  a  stand  beside 
Rose,  while  old  Lord  Rupert,  as  jovial  as  ever,  and  bubbling 
^er  with  gossip  about  the  queen's  speech,  appropriated  Lady 
Helen,  who  was  the  darUng  of  aU  elderly  men 

They  did  not  speak.  Bose  sent  him  a  ray  from  eyes  full  of 
a  new  divine  shyness.  He  smUed  gently  m  answer  to  it,  and 
?uuTf  h^own^ung  emotion,  and  of  the  effort  to  concea^^it 
from  aU  the  worid,  she  noticed  none  of  that  change  which  had 

'*Tnd  tnSe  while,  if  she  could  have  penetrated  the  man's 
silence'  An  hour  before  this  moment  Langham  tad  ^owf 
tSnothing  should  take  him  to  Lady  Charlotte's  that  mght. 
And  yet  here  he  was,  riveted  to  her  side,  alive  hke  any  nor- 
^1  human  being  to  everydet.il  of  ber  loveliness, ^en  to 
his  inmost  being  by  the  intoxicating  message  ^^^  l^^' ™ 
transformation  which  had  passed  m  an  mstant  over  the  teas 
ing  difficult  creature  of  the  last  few  months. 

At  Murewell  his  chagrin  had  been  not  to  fed,  no*  to  strug- 
gle, to  have  been  cheated  out  of  experience.  Well,  T^^^  ^J^? 
experience  in  good  earnest!  And  Langham  is  ^J/f'^S  with 
it  for  dear  life  And  how  little  the  exquisite  child  beside  him 
knows  of  it,  or  of  the  man  on  whom  she  is  spending  her  first 
wmful  passion!  She  stands  strangely  exiUtmg  in  her  own 
strange  victory  over  a  hfe,  a  heart,  which  had  defied  and 
Sudef  her  The  world  throbs  and  thrills  about  her,  the 
cSbeSde  her  is  aU  um-eal,  the  air  is  full  of  whisper,  of  ro- 

The'thought-reading  followed  its  usual  course.  A  murder 
s^r^A  its  detection  were  given  in  dumb  show.  Then  it  was  the 
of  cSSessing,\ank-note  finding,  and  the  various 
Sr  ?orms  of TelepatMc  hide  and  seek.  Mr.  Flaxman  super- 
Stended  them  all,  his  restless  eye  wandering  every  other  mm^ 
to  the  further  drawing-room  in  which  the  l^g^taliad  l^n 
lowered,  catching  there  always  the  same  patch  of  black  and 
white-Eose's  dress  and  the  dark  form  beside  her^ 

"  Are  you  convinced?  Do  you  beUeve?"  said  Rose,  mernly 
looking  up  at  her  companion.  j  +v,o 

telepathy^  Well-so  far-I  have  not  gpt  beyond  the 
delic^cytrperfection  of  Mr.  Denman's-muscular  sensation. 

'^^otbuHorsSticism  is  ridiculous!"  she  said,  gayly. 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


515 


We  know  that  some  people  have  an  extraordinray  power  over 
others." 

''Yes,  that  certainly  we  know!"  he  answered,  his  voice 
dropping,  an  odd  strained  note  in  it.    ''I  grant  you  that." 

She  trembled  deliciously.  Her  eyelids  fell.  They  stood  to- 
gether, conscious  only  of  each  other. 

''Now,"  said  Mr.  Denman,  advancing  to  the  door-way  be- 
tween the  two  drawing  rooms,  "I  have  done  all  I  can— lam 
exhausted.  But  let  me  beg  of  you  all  to  go  on  with  some  ex- 
periments amongst  yourselves.  Every  fresh  discovery  of  this 
power  in  a  new  individual  is  a  gain  to  science.  I  believe  about 
one  in  ten  has  some  share  of  it.  Mr.  Flaxman  and  I  will  ar- 
range everything,  if  any  one  will  volunteer?" 

The  audience  broke  up  into  groups,  laughing,  chatting, 
suggesting  this  and  that.  Presently  Lady  Charlotte's  loud 
dictatorial  voice  made  itself  heard,  as  she  stood,  eye  glass  in 
hand,  looking  round  the  circle  of  her  guests. 

"  Somebody  must  venture— we  are  losing  time." 

Then  the  eye  glass  stopped  at  Eose,  who  was  sitting,  tall 
and  radiant,  on  the  sofa,  her  blue  fan  across  her  white  knees. 
"  Miss  Ley  burn— you  are  always  public-spirited— will  you  be 
victimized  for  the  good  of  science?" 

The  girl  got  up  with  a  smile. 

"And  Mr.  Langham— will  you  see  what  you  can  do  with 
Miss  Ley  burn?  Hugh— we  all  choose  her  task,  don't  we— 
then  Mr.  Langham  wills?" 

Flaxman  came  up  to  explain.  Langham  had  turned  to  Rose 
—a  wild  fury  with  Lady  Charlotte  and  the  whole  affair  sweep- 
ing through  him.  But  there  was  no  time  to  demur ;  that  judi- 
cial eye  was  on  them;  the  large  figure  and  towering  cap  bent 
toward  him.   Refusal  was  impossible. 

"Command  me!"  he  said,  with  a  sudden  straightening  of 
the  form  and  a  flush  on  the  pale  cheek.  "I  am  afraid  Miss 
Leyburn  will  find  me  a  very  bad  partner." 

"Well,  now,  then!"  said  Flaxman;  "  Miss  Leyburn,  will  you 
please  go  down  into  the  library  while  we  settle  what  you  are 
to  do?" 

She  went,  and  he  held  the  door  open  for  her.  But  she  passed 
out  unconscious  of  him— rosy,  confused,  her  eyes  bent  on  the 
groimd. 

"Now,  then,  what  shall  Miss  Leyburn  do?"  asked  Lady 
Oharlotte,  in  the  same  loud  emphatic  tone. 


515  BOBEBT  BLSMEEE, 

"  If  I  might  suggest  something  quite  difierent  from  anything 
that  has  been  yet  tried,"  said  Mr.  Flaxman,  "suppose  we  re- 
quire Miss  Leybum  to  kiss  the  hand  of  the  Uttle  marble  statue 
of  Hope  in  the  far  drawing-room.  What  do  you  say,  Lang- 
ham?"  .  ^    ^.  K 

"  What  you  please !"  said  Langham,  moving  up  to  him.  A 
glance  passed  between  the  two  men.  In  Langham's  there  waa 
a  hardly  sane  antagonism  and  resentment,  in  Flaxman's  an 
excited  intelligence.  .  ■,  ^  j-i 

"  Now  then,"  said  Flaxman,  coolly,  "  fix  your  mmd  steadily 
on  what  Miss  Leybum  is  to  do-you  must  take  her  hand— but 
except  in  thought,  you  must  carefully  foUow  and  not  lead  her. 
Shall  I  call  her  ?"  .     ^  . 

Langham  abruptly  assented.  He  had  a  passionate  sense  of 
being  watched-tricked.  Why  were  he  and  she  to  be  made  a 
spectacle  for  this  man  and -his  friends?  A  mad  ii-rational  in- 
dignation surged  through  him.  ,  ^  ^  *  i 
Then  she  was  led  in  blindfolded,  one  hand  stretched  out  feel- 
ing the  air  in  front  of  her.  The  circle  of  people  drew  back. 
Mr  Flaxman  and  Mr.  Denman  prepared,  note-book  in  hand,  to 
watch  the  experiment.   Langham  moved  desperately  forward. 

But  the  instant  her  soft,  trembling  hand  touched  his,  as 
though  by  enchantment  the  surrounding  scene,  the  faces,  the 
lights,  were  blotted  out  from  him.  He  forgot  his  anger,  he 
foro'ot  everything  but  her  and  this  thing  she  was  to  do.  He 
had  her  m  his  grasp-he  was  the  man,  the  master-and  what 
enchanting  readiness  to  yield  in  the  swaying  pliant  torm  !  In 
the  distance  far  away  gleamed  the  statue  of  Hope,  a  child  on 
tiptoe,  one  outstretched  arm  just  visible  from  where  he  stood. 

There  was  a  moment's  silent  expectation.  Every  eye  was 
riveted  on  the  two  flgures-on  the  dark,  handsome  man-on 
the  bhndfolded  gu-1. 

At  last  Eose  began  to  move  gently  forward.  It  was  a  strange 
wavering  motion.  The  breath  came  quickly  through  her 
slightly  parted  hps;  her  bright  color  was  ebbing.  She  was 
conscious  of  nothing  but  the  grasp  m  which  her  hand  was  held 
-otherwise  her  mind  seemed  a  blank.  Her  state  during  the 
next  few  seconds  was  not  unlike  the  state  of  some  one  under 
the  partial  influence  of  an  anaesthetic  ;  a  benumbmg  gnp  was 
laid  on  all  her  faculties,  and  she  knew  nothing  of  how  she 
moved  or  where  she  was  going.  ,    .  j  i* 

Suddenly  the  trance  cleared  away.   It  might  have  lasted  half 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


511 


OB  hour  or  five  seconds,  for  all  she  knew.  But  she  was  stand- 
ing beside  a  small  marble  statue  in  the  furthest  drawing-room, 
and  her  lips  had  on  them  a  slight  sense  of  chill,  as  though  they 
had  just  been  laid  to  something  cold. 

She  pulled  off  the  handkerchief  from  her  eyes.  Above  her 
was  Langham's  face,  a  marvelous  glow  and  animation  in  every 
line  of  it. 

Have  I  done  it  ?"  she  asked,  in  a  tremulous  whisper. 

For  the  moment  her  self-control  was  gone.  She  was  still  be- 
wildered. 

He  nodded,  smiling.. 

am  so  glad,"  she  said,  still  in  the  same  quick  whisper, 
gazing  at  him.  There  was  the  most  adorable  abandon  in  her 
whole  look  and  attitude.  He  could  but  just  restrain  himself 
from  taking  her  in  his  arms,  and  for  one  bright,  flashing  in- 
stant each  saw  nothing  but  the  other. 

The  heavy  curtain  which  had  partially  hidden  the  door  of  the 
little  old-fashioned  powder-closet  as  they  approached  it,  and 
through  which  they  had  swept  without  heeding,  was  drawing 
back  with  a  rattle. 

''She  has  done  it!  Hurrah!"  cried  Mr.  Flaxman.  ''What 
a  rush  that  last  was.  Miss  Leyburn.   You  left  us  all  behind." 

Eose  turned  to  him,  still  dazed,  drav  ing  her  hand  across  her 
eyes.   A  rush  ?   She  had  known  nothing  about  it ! 

Mr.  Flaxman  turned  and  walked  back,  apparently  to  report 
to  his  aunt,  who,  with  Lady  Helen,  had  been  watching  the  ex- 
periment from  the  main  drawing-room !  His  face  was  a  curi- 
ous mixture  of  gravity  and  the  keenest  excitement.  The 
gravity  was  mostly  sharp  compunction.  He  had  satisfied  a 
passionate  curiosity,  but  in  the  doing  of  it  he  had  outraged 
certain  instincts  of  breeding  and  refinement  which  were  now 
revenging  themselves. 

"  Did  she  do  it  exactly?"  said  Lady  Helen,  eagerly. 

"Exactly,"  he  said,  standing  still. 

Lady  Charlotte  looked  at  him  significantly.  But  he  would 
not  see  her  look. 

"Lady  Charlotte,  where  is  my  sister?"  said  Eose,  coming  up 
from  the  back  room,  looking  now  nearly  as  white  as  her  dress. 

It  appeared  that  Agnes  had  just  been  carried  off  by  a  lady 
who  lived  on  Campden  Hill  close  to  the  Leyburns,  and  who 
had  been  obliged  to  go  at  the  beginning  of  the  last  experiment. 
Agm@s,  torji  between  her  interest  in  what  was  going  on  and  her 


i 

518  ROBERT  ELSMBRE. 

desire  to  get  back  to  her  mother,  had  at  last  hurriedly  accepted 
this  Mrs.  Sherwood's  offer  of  a  seat  in  her  carriage,  imagining 
that  her  sister  would  want  to  stay  a  good  deal  later,  and  rely- 
ing on  Lady  Charlotte's  promise  that  she  should  be  safely  put 
into  a  hansom. 

* '  I  must  go, "  said  Rose,  putting  her  hand  on  her  head.  ' '  How 
tiring  this  is !   How  long  did  it  take,  Mr.  Flaxman?" 

Exactly  three  minutes,"  he  said,  his  gaze  fixed  upon  her 
with  an  expression  that  only  Lady  Helen  noticed. 

''So  little!  Good-night,  Lady  Charlotte f  and  giving  her 
hand  first  to  her  hostess,  then  to  Mr.  Flaxman's  bewildered 
sister,  she  moved  away  into  the  crowd. 

''Hugh,  of  course  you  are  going  down  with  her?"  exclaimed 
Lady  Charlotte,  under  her  breath.  ''You  must.  I  promised 
to  see  her  safely  off  the  premises." 

He  stood  immovable.  Lady  Helen,  with  a  reproachful  look, " 
made  a  step  forward,  but  he  caught  her  arm. 

''Don't  spoil  sport,"  he  said*  in  a  tone  which,  amid  the  hum 
of  discussion  caused  by  the  experiment,  was  heard  only  by  his 
aunt  and  sister. 

They  looked  at  him— the  one  amazed,  the  other  grimly  ob- 
servant-and  caught  a  slight  significant  motion  of  the  head 
toward  Langham's  distant  figure. 

Langham  came  up  and  made  his  farewells.  As  he  turned 
his  back.  Lady  Helen's  large,  astonished  eyes  followed  him  to 
the  door. 

' '  Oh,  Hugh !"  was  all  she  could  say  as  they  came  back  to  her 
brother. 

"Never  mind,  Nellie,"  he  whispered,  touched  by  the  be- 
wildered sympathy  of  her  look;  "I  wiU  tell  you  all  about  it 
to  morrow.  I  have  not  been  behaving  well,  and  am  not  par- 
ticularly pleased  with  myself.  But  for  her  it  is  aU  right. 
Poor,  pretty  little  thing!" 

And  he  walked  away  into  the  thick  of  the  conversation. 

Down-stairs  the  haU  was  already  fuU  of  people  waiting  for 
their  carriages.  Langham,  hurrying  down,  saw  Rose  coming 
out  of  the  cloak  room  muffled  up  in  brown  furs,  a  pale,  child- 
like fatigue  in  her  looks  which  set  his  heart  beating  faster  than 
ever. 

"Miss  Leyburn,  how  are  you  going  home?" 
*'  Will  you  ask  for  a  hansom,  please?" 


KOEEKT  ELSMERE.  519 

Take  my  arm,"  he  said,  and  she  clung  to  him  through  the 
crush  till  they  reached  the  door. 

Nothing  but  private  carriages  were  in  sight.  The  street 
seemed  blocked,  a  noisy  tumult  of  horses  and  footmen  and 
shouting  men  with  lanterns.  Which  of  them  suggested,  ' '  Shall 
we  walk  a  few  steps?"  At  any  rate,  here  they  were,  out  in  the 
wind  and  the  darkness,  every  step  carrying  them  further  away 
from  that  moving  patch  of  noise  and  light  behind. 

' '  We  shall  find  a  cab  at  once  in  Park  Lane, "  he  said.    ' '  Are 
you  warm?" 
Perfectly." 

A  fur  hood  fitted  round  her  face,  to  which  the  color  was  com- 
ing back.  She  held  her  cloak  tightly  round  her,  and  her  little 
feet,  fairly  well  shod,  slipped  in  and  out  on  the  dry  frosty 
pavement. 

Suddenly  they  passed  a  hugu  unfinished  house,  the  buUding 
of  which  was  being  pushed  on  by  electric  light.  The  great 
walls,  ivory  white  in  the  glare,  rose  into  the  purply  blue  of  the 
starry  February  sky,  and  as  they  passed  within  the  power  of 
the  lamps,  each  saw  with  noonday  distinctness  every  line  and 
feature  in  the  other's  face.  They  swept  on— the  night,  with  its 
alternations  of  flame  and  shadow,  an  unreal  and  enchanted 
world  about  them.  A  space  of  darkness  succeeded  the  space 
^of  daylight.  Behind  them  in  the  distance  was  the  sound  of 
hammers  and  workmen's  voices;  before  them  the  dim  trees  of 
the  park.  Not  a  human  being  was  in  sight.  London  seemed 
to  exist  to  be  the  mere  dark  friendly  shelter  of  this  wanderine; 
of  theirs. 

A  blast  of  wind  blew  her  cloak  out  of  her  grasp.  But  before 
she  could  close  it  again  an  arm  was  flung  around  her.  She 
could  not  speak  or  move,  she  stood  passive,  conscious  only  of 
the  strangeness  of  the  wintry  %ind,  and  of  this  warm  breast 
against  which  her  cheek  was  laid. 

' '  Oh,  stay  there !"  a  voice  said  close  to  her  ear.  ' '  Rest  there 
—pale,  tired  child— pale,  tired  little  child!" 

That  moment  seemed  to  last  an  eternity.  He  held  her  close 
cherishing  and  protecting  her  from  the  cold— not  kissing  her- 
till  at  length  she  looked  up  with  bright  eyes,  shining  through 
happy  tears. 

*^Are  you  sure  at  last?"  she  said,  strangely  enough,  speak- 
ing out  of  the  far  depths  of  her  own  thought  to  his. 
*  Sure!"  he  said,  his  ezpression  changing.    ''What  can  I 


ROBERT  ELSMEBE. 


be  sure  of  ?  I  am  sure  that  I  am  not  worth  your  lovhig,  sure 
that  I  am  poor,  insignificant,  obscure,  that  if  you  give  your- 
self to  me  you  will  be  miserably  throwing  yourself  away !" 

She  looked  at  him,  still  smiling,  a  white  sorceress  weaving 
spells  about  him  in  the  darkness.  He  drew  her  lightly  gloved 
hand  through  his  arm,  holding  the  fragile  fingers  close  in  his, 
and  they  moved  on. 

*'Do  you  know,"  he  repeated— a  tone  of  intense  melancholy 
replacing  the  tone  of  passion—''  how  httle  I  have  to  give  you?" 

I  know,"  she  answered,  her  face  turned  shyly  awa,y  from 
him,  her  words  coming  from  under  the  fur  hood  which  had 
fallen  forward  a  Httle.  ' '  I  know  that— that— you  are  not  rich, 
that  you  distrust  yourself,  that—" 

Oh,  hush,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  full  of  pain.  "  You 
know  so  little;  let  me  paint  myself.  I  have  lived  alone,  for 
myself,  in  myself,  till  sometimes  there  seems  to  be  hardly  any- 
thing left  in  me  to  love  or  be  loved ;  nothing  but  a  brain,  a 
machine  that  exists  only  for  certain  selfish  ends.  My  habits 
are  the  tyrants  of  years;  and  at  Mure  well,  though  I  loved  you 
there,  they  were  strong  enough  to  carry  me  away  from  you. 
There  is  something  paralyzing  in  me,  which  is  always  forbid- 
ding me  to  feel,  to  will.  Sometimes  I  think  it  is  an  actual 
physical  disability— the  horror  that  is  in  me  of  change,  of 
movement,  of  effort.  Oan  you  bear  with  me?  Can  you  be 
poor?  Can  you  live  a  life  of  monotony  ?  Oh,  impossible!''  he 
broke  out,  almost  putting  her  hand  away  from  himc  ''You 
who  ought  to  be  a  queen  of  this  world,  for  whom  everything 
bright  and  brilUant  is  waiting  if  you  will  but  stretch  out  youri 
kand  to  it.  It  is  a  crime— an  infamy— that  I  should  be  speak- 
ing to  you  like  this !" 

Eose  raised  her  head.  A  passing  light  shone  upon  her.  She 
was  trembhng  and  pale  again,  i)ut  her  eyes  were  unchanged. 
^^No,  no,"  she  said,  wistfully;  "  not  if  you  love  me." 
He  hung  above  her,  an  a^ony  of  feeling  in  the  fine  rigid  face, 
of  which  the  beautiful  features  and  surfaces  were  already 
worn  and  blanched  by  the  Hfe  of  thought.  What  possessed 
him  was  not  so  much  distrust  of  circumstance  as  doubt,  hid- 
eous doubt,  of  himself,  of  this  very  passion  beating  within  him. 
She  saw  nothing,  meanwhile,  but  the  self -deprecation  which 
she  knew  so  well  in  him,  and  against  which  her  love  in  its 
rash  ignorance  and  generosity  cried  out. 


ROBERT  ELSMERE, 


521 


You  will  not  say  you  love  me  !"  she  cried,  with  hurrying 
breath.      But  I  know— I  know— you  do." 

Then  her  courage  sinking,  ashamed,  blushing,  once  mor( 
turning  away  from  him— "  At  least,  if  you  don't,  I  am  very- 
very— unhappy . " 

The  soft  words  flew  through  his  blood.  For  an  instant  he 
felt  himself  saved,  hke  Faust— saved  by  the  surpassing  moral 
beauty  of  one  moment's  impression.  That  she  should  need 
him,  that  his  hfe  should  matter  to  hers  I  They  were  passing 
the  garden  wall  of  a  great  house^  In  the  deepest  shadow  of  it 
he  stooped  suddenly  and  kissed  her. 

CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

Langham  parted  with  rose  at  the  corner  of  Martin  Street. 
She  would  not  let  him  take  her  any  further. 

*'I  will  say  nothing,"  she  whispered  to  him,  as  he  put  her 
into  a  passing  hansom,  wrapping  her  cloak  warmly  round  her, 

till  I  see  you  again.  To-morrow?" 
To-morrow  morning,"  he  said,  waving  his  hand  to  her, 
and  in  another  instant  he  was  facing  the  north  wind  alone 

He  walked  on  fast  toward  Beaumont  Street,  but  by  the  time 
he  reached  his  destination  midnight  had  struck.  He  made  his 
way  into  his  room,  where  the  fire  was  still  smoldering,  and 
striking  a  light,  sunk  into  Lis  large  reading-chair,  beside  which 
the  volumes  used  in  the  afternoon  lay  littered  on  the  floor. 

He  was  suddenly  penetrated  with  the  cold  of  the  night,  and 
hung  shivering  over  the  few  embers  which  still  glowed.  What 
had  happened  to  him?  In  this  room,  in  this  chair,  the  self- 
forgetting  excitement  of  that  walk,  scarcely  half  an  hour  old,^^ 
seems  to  him  already  long  passed— incredible  almost. 

And  yet  the  brain  was  still  full  of  images,  the  mind  still  full 
of  a  hundred  new  impressions.  fThat  fair  head  against  his 
breast,  those  soft  confiding  words,  those  yielding  lips.  Ah !  it 
is  the  poor,  silent,  insignificant  student  that  has  conquered. 
It  is  he,  not  the  successful  man  of  the  world,  that  has  held 
that  young  and  beautiful  girl  in  his  arms,  and  heard  from  her 
the  sweetest  and  humblest  confession  of  love.  Fate  can  ha^e 
neither  wit  nor  conscience  to  have  ordained  it  so;  but  fate  has 
so  ordained  it.  Langham  takes  note  of  his  victory,  takes  dis- 
mal- note  also  that  the  satisfaction  of  it  hag?  already  half  de- 
pa^rted. 

So  the  great  moment  has  ocsne  and  goaie.   The  one  supreme 


522 


ROBBRT  ULSMERE. 


experience  which  life  and  his  own  will  had  so  far  rigidly  denied 
him,  is  his.  He  has  felt  the  torturing  thrill  of  passion— he 
has  evoked  such  an  answer  as  all  men  might  envy  him— and 
fresh  from  Rose's  kiss,  from  Rose's  beauty,  the  strange,  maimed 
soul  falls  to  a  pitiless  analysis  of  his  passion,  her  response. 
One  moment  he  is  at  her  feet  in  a  voiceless  trance  of  gratitude 
and  tenderness;  the  next— is  nothing  what  it  promises  to  he?— 
and  has  the  boon  already,  now  that  he  has  it  in  his  grasp,  lost 
some  of  its  beauty,? just  as  the  sea-shell  drawn  out  of  the  water, 
where  its  lovely  iridescence  tempted  eye  and  hand,  loses  half 
its  fairy  charm? 

The  night  wore  on.  Outside  an  occasional  cab  or  cart  would 
rattle  over  the  stones  of  the  street,  an  occasional  voice  or  step 
would  penetrate  the  thin  walls  of  the  house,  bringing  a  shock, 
of  sound  into  that  silent  upper  room.  Nothing  caught  Lang- 
ham's  ear.  He  was  absorbed  in  the  dialogue  which  was  to 
decide  his  life. 

Opposite  to  him,  as  it  seemed,  there  sat  a  spectral  reproduc- 
tion of  himself,  his  true  self,  with  whom  he  held  a  long  and 
ghastly  argument. 

*'But  I  love  her!— I  love  her!  A  little  courage— a  little 
effort— and  I  too  can  achieve  what  other  men  achieve.  I  have 
gifts,  great  gifts.  Mere  contact  with  her,  the  mere  necessities 
of  the  situation,  will  drive  me  back  to  life,  teach  me  how  to 
live  normally,  like  other  men.  I  have  not  forced  her  love— it 
has  been  a  free  gift.  Who  can  blame  me  if  I  take  it,  if  I  cling 
to  it,  as  the  man  freezing  in  a  crevasse  clutches  the  rope  thrown 
to  him?'^ 

To  which  the  pale  specter  self  said,  scornfully : 
''Courage  and  effort  may  as  well  be  dropped  out  of  your 
vocabulary.  They  are  words  that  you  have  no  use  for;  Re- 
place them  by  two  others— T^aM^  and  character.  Slave  as  you 
are  of  habit,  of  the  character  you  have  woven  for  yourseK  out 
of  years  of  deliberate  living— what  wild  unreason  to  imagine 
that  love  can  unmake,  can  recreate!  What  you  are,  you  are 
to  all  eternity.  Bear  your  own  burden,  but  for  God's  sake  be- 
guile no  other  human  creature  into  trusting  you  with  theirs!" 

''  But  she  loves  me  I  Impossible  that  I  should  crush  and  tear 
so  kind,  so  warm  a  heart!  Poor  child— poor  child!  I  have 
played  on  her  pity.  I  have  won  all  she  had  to  give.  And 
uow  to  throw  her  gift  back  in  her  face— oh,  monstrous— oh, 
Snhuman !"  and  the  cold  drops  stood  on  his  forehead. 


EOBEKT  ELSMERE. 


628 


But  the  otlier  self  was  inexorable.  You  have  acted  as  you 
were  bound  to  act—as  any  man  may  be  expected  to  act  in 
whom  will  and  manhood  and  true  human  kindness  are  dying 
out,  poisoned  by  despair  and  the  tyranny  of  the  critical  habit. 
But  at  least  do  not  add  another  crime  to  the  first.  What  in 
God's  name  have  you  to  offer  a  creature  of  such  claims,  such 
ambitions?  You  are  poor— you  must  go  back  to  Oxford— you 
must  take  up  the  work  your  soul  loathes— grow  more  soured, 
mere  imbittered— maintain  a  useless,  degrading  struggle,  till 
her  youth  is  done,  her  beauty  wasted,  and  till  you  yourself 
have  lost  every  shred  of  decency  and  dignity,  even  that  deco- 
rous outward  life  in  which  you  can  still  wrap  yourself  from  the 
world !  Think  of  the  little  house— the  children— the  money— 
difficulties — she,  spiritually  starved,  every  illusion  gone — you 
incapable  soon  of  love,  incapable  even  of  pity,  conscious  only 
of  a  duU  rage  with  her,  yourself,  the  world !  Bow  the  neck- 
submit— refuse  that  long  agony  for  yourself  and  her,  while 
there  is  still  time.  Kismet — Kismet 

And  spread  out  before  Langham's  shrinking  soul  there  lay 
a  whole  dismal  Hogarthian  series,  image  leading  to  image, 
calamity  to  calamity,  till  in  the  last  scene  of  all  the  maddened 
inward  sight  perceived  two  figures,  two  gray  and  withered 
figures,  far  apart,  gazing  at  each  other  with  cold  and  sunken 
eyes  across  dark  rivers  of  sordid,  irremediable  regret. 

The  hours  passed  away,  and  in  the  end,  the  specter  self,  a 
cold  and  bloodless  conqueror,  slipped  back  into  the  soul  which 
remorse  and  terror,  love  and  pity,  a  last  impulse  of  hope,  a  last 
.stirring  of  manhood,  had  been  alike  powerless  to  save. 

The  February  dawn  was  just  beginning  when  he  dragged 
hknself  to  a  table  and  wrote. 

Then  for  hours  afterward  he  sat  simk  in  his  chair,  the  stupor 
of  fatigue  broken  every  now  and  then  by  a  flash  of  curious  in- 
trospection. It  was  a  base  thing  which  he  had  done— it  was 
also  a  strange  thing  psychologically;  and  at  intervals  he  tried 
to  understand  it,  to  track  it  to  its  causes. 

At  nine  o'clock  he  crept  out  into  the  frosty  daylight,  found 
a  commissionaire  who  was  accustomed  to  do  errands  for  him, 
and  sent  him  with  a  letter  to  Lerwick  Gardens. 

On  his  way  back  he  passed  a  gunsmith's,  and  stood  looking 
fascinated  at  the  shining  barrels.  Then  he  moved  away, 
ahaking  his  head,  his  eyes  gleaming  as  though  the  spectacle  ol 


ft 


524 


ROBERT  ELSMER:^. 


himself  had  long  ago  passed  the  bounds  or  tragedy— become 
farcical  even. 

I  should  only  stand  a  month— arguing— with  my  finger  on 
the  trigger." 

In  the  httle  hall  his  landlady  met  him,  gave  a  start  at  the 
sight  of  him,  and  asked  him  if  he  ailed  and  if  she  could  do 
anything  for  him.  He  gave  her  a  sharp  answer  and  went  up- 
stairs, v/here  she  heard  him  dragging  books  and  boxes  about  as 
though  he  were  packing. 

A  little  later  Rose  was  standing  at  the  dining-room  window 
of  No.  27,  looking  on  to  a  few  trees  bedecked  with  rime  which 
stood  outside.  The  ground  and  roofs  were  white,  a  promise  of 
sun  was  struggling  through  the  fog.  So  far  everything  in 
these  unfrequented  Campden  Hill  roads  was  clean,  crisp,  en- 
livening, and  the  sparkle  in  Rose's  mood  answered  to  that  of 
Nature. 

Breakfast  had  just  been  cleared  away.  Agnes  was  upstairs 
^ith  Mrs.  Leyburn.  Catherine,  who  was  staying  in  the  house 
for  a  day  or  two,  was  in  a  chair  by  the  fire  reading  some  letters 
forwarded  to  her  from  Bedford  Square. 

He  would  appear  some  time  in  the  morning,  she  supposed. 
With  an  expression  half  rueful,  half  amused,  she  fell  to  im- 
agining his  interview  with  Catherine,  with  her  mother.  Poor 
Catherine !  Rose  feels  herself  happy  enough  to  allow  herself  a 
good  honest  pang  of  remorse  for  much  of  her  behavior  to 
Catherine  this  winter ;  how  thorny  she  has  been,  how  unkind 
often,  to  this  sad,  changed  sister.  And  now  this  will  be  a  fresh 
blow!  '*But  afterward,  when  she  has  got  over  it— when  she 
knows  that  it  makes  me  happy — that  nothing  else  would  make 
me  happy— then  she  will  be  reconciled,  and  she  and  I  perhaps 
will  make  friends,  all  over  again,  from  the  beginning.  I  won't 
be  angry  or  hard  over  it— poor  Cathie !'' 

And  with  regard  to  Mr.  Flaxm"an.  As  she  stands  there 
waiting  idly  for  what  destiny  may  send  her,  she  puts  herself 
through  a  little  light  catechism  about  this  other  friend  of  hers. 
He  had  behaved  somewhat  oddly  toward  her  of  late ;  she  begins 
now  to  remember  that  her  exit  from  Lady  Charlotte's  house 
the  night  before  had  been  a  very  different  matter  from  the 
royaUy  attended  leave-takings,  presided  over  by  Mr.  Flaxman, 
which  generally  befell  her  there.  Had  he  undei^tood?  With 
a  little  toss  of  her  head  she  said  to  herseK  that  she  did  not  ca^ 


§25 


if  it  was  s@.    ''I  have  never  encouraged  Mr.  Flaxman  to  think 
I  was  going  to  marry  him." 

But  of  course  Mr.  Flaxman  will  consider  she  has  done  badly 
for  herself.  So  will  Lady  Charlotte  and  all  her  outer  world. 
They  will  say  she  is  dismally  throwing  herself  away,  and  her 
mother,  no  doubt  influenced  by  the  clamor,  will  take  up  very 
much  the  same  hne. 

What  matter!  The  girl's  spirit  seemed  to  rise  against  all 
the  world.  There  was  a  sort  of  romantic  exaltation  in  her 
sacrifice  of  herself,  a  jubilant  looking  forward  to  remonstrance, 
a  willful  determination  to  overcome  it.  That  she  was  about  to 
do  the  last  thing  she  could  have  been  expected  to  do,  gave  her 
pleasure.  Almost  all  artistic  faculty  goes  with  a  love  of  sur- 
prise and  caprice  in  life.  Eose  had  her  full  share  of  the 
artistic  love  for  the  impossible  and  the  difficult. 

Besides— success!  To  make  a  man  hope  and  love,  and  liv© 
again— that  shall  be  her  success.  She  leaned  against  the  win- 
dow, her  eyes  fiUing,  her  heart  very  soft. 

Suddenly  she  saw  a  commissionaire  coming  up  the  little 
flagged  passage  to  the  door.   He  gave  in  a  note,  and  imme- 
diately afterward  the  dining-room  door  was  opened. 
A  letter  for  you,  miss,"  said  the  maid. 

Rose  took  it— glanced  at  the  handwriting.  A  bright  flush— 
a  surreptitious  glance  at  Catherine  who  sat  absorbed  in  a 
wandering  letter  from  Mrs.  Darcy.  Then  the  girl  carried  her 
prize  to  the  window  and  opened  it. 

Catherine  read  on,  gathering  up  the  Murewell  names  and 
details  as  some  famished  gleaner  might  gather  up  the  scattered 
ears  on  a  plundered  field.  At  last  something  in  the  silence  of 
the  room,  and  of  the  other  inmate  in  it,  struck  her. 

''Rose,"  she  said,  looking  up,  "  was  that  some  one  brought 
you  a  note?" 

The  girl  turned  with  a  start—the  letter  fell  to  the  gi'ound. 
She  made  a  faint,  ineffectual  effort  to  pick  it  up^  and  sunk  into 
^  chair. 

''Rose— darling!"  cried  Catherine,  springing  up,  "are  you 
ill  ?" 

Rose  looked  at  her  with  a  perfectly  colorless  fixed  face,  made 
a  feeble  negative  sign,  and  then  laying  her  arms  on  the  break- 
fast-table in  front  of  her,  let  her  head  fall  upon  them. 

Catherine  stood  over  her  aghast.  "My  darling— what  is  it? 
Come  and  lie  down— take  this  wat^." 


526 


BrOBBKT  ELSMERE. 


She  put  some  close  to  her  sister's  hand,  but  Rose  pushed  it 
away.      Don't  talk  to  me,"  she  said,  with  diflSlculty. 

Catherine  knelt  beside  her  in  helpless  pain  and  perplexity, 
her  cheek  resting  against  her  sister's  shoulder  as  a  mute  sign 
of  sympathy.  What  could  be  the  matter?  Presently  her  gaze 
traveled  from  Rose  to  the  letter  on  the  floor.  It  lay  with  the 
address  uppermost,  and  she  at  once  recognized  Langham's 
handwriting.  But  before  she  could  combine  any  rational  ideas 
with  this  quick  perception,  Rose  had  partially  mastered  herself. 
She  raised  her  head  slowly  and  grasped  her  sister's  arm. 

I  was  startled,"  she  said,  a  forced  smile  on  her  white  lips. 

Last  night  Mr.  Langham  asked  me  to  marry  him— I  expected 
him  here  this  morning  to  consult  with  mamma  and  you.  That 
letter  is  to  inform  me  that— he  made  a  mistake— and  he  is 
very  sorry !   So  am  I !   It  is  so— so— bewildering !" 

She  got  up  restlessly  and  went  to  the  fire,  as  though  shiver- 
ing with  cold.  Catherine  thought  she  hardly  knew  what  she 
was  saying.  The  elder  sister  followed  her,  and  throwing  an 
arm  round  her,  pressed  the  slim,  irresponsive  figure  close.  Her 
eyes  were  bright  with  anger,  her  lips  quivering. 

That  he  should  dare  she  cried.  Rose— my  poor  little 
Rose." 

''Don't  blame  him!"  said  Rose,  crouching  down  before  the 
fire,  while  Catherine  fell  into  the  arm-chair  again.  ' '  It  doesn't 
seem  to  count,  from  you— you  have  always  been  so  ready  to 
blame  him !" 

Her  brow  contracted;  she  looked  frowning  into  the  fire,  her 
still  colorless  mouth  working  painfully. 

Catherine  was  cut  to  the  heart.  Oh,  Rose !"  she  said,  hold- 
ing out  her  hands,  1  will  blame  no  one,  dear.  I  seem  hard— 
but  I  love  you  so.  Oh,  tell  me— you  would  have  told  me  every- 
thing once !" 

There  was  the  most  painful  yearning  in  her  tone.  Rose  lifted 
a  listless  right  hand  and  put  it  into  her  sister's  outstretched 
palms.  But  she  made  no  answer,  till  suddenly,  with  a  smoth- 
ered cry,  she  fell  toward  Catherine. 

' '  Catherine !  I  can  not  bear  it.  I  said  I  loved  him— he  kissed 
me— I  could  kill  myself  and  him." 

Catherine  never  forgot  the  mingled  tragedy  and  domesticity 
of  the  hour  that  followed— the  little  familiar  morning  sounds  in 
and  about  the  house,  maids  running  up  and  down-stairs,  trades- 
men calling,  bells  ringing-^-axxd  bieire,  at  h^r  feet,  a  speetaicle  of 


ROBERT  ELSMERB. 


527 


moral  and  mental  struggle  which  she  only  half  understood,  but 
which  w^ung  her  inmost  heart.  Two  strains  of  f  eehng  seemed 
to  be  present  in  Eose— a  sense  of  shock,  of  wounded  pride,  of 
intolerable  humihation,  and  a  strange  intervening  passion  of 
pity,  not  for  herself  but  for  Langham,  which  seemed  to  have 
been  stirred  in  her  by  his  letter.  But  though  the  elder  ques- 
tioned, and  the  younger  seemed  to  answer,  Catherine  could 
hardly  piece  the  story  together,  nor  would  she  find  the  answer 
to  the  question  filling  her  own  indignant  heart:  Does  she  love 
him?" 

At  last  Eose  got  up  from  her  crouching  position  by  the  fire 
and  stood,  a  white  ghost  of  herself,  pushing  back  the  bright, 
encroaching  hair  from  eyes  that  were  dry  and  feverish. 

If  I  could  only  be  angry— do wm-ight  angry,"  she  said,  more 
to  herself  than  Catherine,    it  would  do  one  good." 

Give  others  leave  to  be  angry  for  you!"  cried  Catherine. 
Don't  I"  said  Eose,  almost  fiercely,  drawing  herself  away. 

You  don't  know.  It  is  a  fate.  Why  did  we  ever  meet?  You 
may  read  his  letter ;  you  must—you  misjudge  him— you  always 
have.  No,  no  "—and  she  nervously  crushed  the  letter  in  her 
hand— not  yet.  But  you  shall  read  it  some  time— you  and 
Eobert  too.  Married  people  always  tell  one  another.  It  is  due 
to  him,  perhaps  due  to  me  too,"  and  a  hot  flush  transfigured 
her  paleness  for  an  instant.  ' '  Oh,  my  head !  Why  does  one's 
mind  affect  one's  body  like  this?  It  shall  not— it  is  humiUating ! 
'  Miss  Leybum  has  been  jilted  and  can  not  see  visitors  '—that 
is  the  kind  of  thing.  Catherine,  when  you  have  finished  that 
document,  wiU  you  kindly  come  and  hear  me  practice  my  last 
Raff— I  am  going.  Goodbye." 

She  moved  to  the  door,  but  Catherine  had  only  just  time  to 
catch  her,  or  she  would  have  fallen  over  a  chair  from  sudden 
giddiness. 

' '  Miserable !"  she  said,  dashing  a  tear  from  her  eyes ;  * '  I  must 
go  and  lie  down  then  in  the  proper  missish  fashion.  Mind,  on 
yoiu*  peril,  Catherine,  not  a  word  to  any  one  but  Eobert.  I 
shall  tell  Agnes.  And  Eobert  is  not  to  speak  to  me !  No,  don't 
come— I  will  go  alone." 

And  warning  her  sister  back,  she  groped  her  way  upstairs. 
Inside  her  room,  when  she  had  locked  the  door,  she  stood  a  mo- 
ment upright  with  the  letter  in  her  hand— the  blotted,  incoher- 
ent scrawl,  where  Langham  had  for  once  forgotten  to  be  liter- 
aay,  whfer^  every  pitiable  haif-fim§fe4  seintence  pleaded  with 


ROBERT  ELSMEKE. 


her— even  in  the  first  smart  of  her  wrong— for  pardon,  for  com- 
passion, as  toward  something  maimed  and  paralyzed  from  birth, 
unworthy  even  of  her  contempt.  Then  the  tears  began  to  rain 
over  her  cheeks. 

' '  I  was  not  good  enough— I  was  not  good  enough— God  would 
not  let  me !" 

And  she  fell  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed,  the  little  bit  of  paper 
crushed  in  her  hands  against  her  lips.  Not  good  enough  for 
what?   To  save  f 

How  lightly  she  had  dreamed  of  healing,  redeeming,  chang- 
ing !  And  the  task  is  refused  her.  It  is  not  so  much  the  cry 
of  personal  desire  that  shakes  her  as  she  kneels  and  weeps,  nor 
is  it  mere  wounded  woman's  pride.  It  is  a  strange  stern  sense 
of  law.  Had  she  been  other  than  she  is— morelovmg,  less  self- 
absorbed,  loftier  in  motive— he  could  not  have  loved  her  so, 
have  left  her  so.  Deep  undeveloped  forces  of  character  stir 
within  her.  She  feels  herself  judged— and  with  a  righteous 
judgment— issmng  inexorably  from  the  facts  of  hfe  and  cir- 
cumstance. 

Meanwhile  Catherine  was  shut  up  down-stairs  with  Robert, 
who  had  come  over  early  to  see  how  the  household  fared. 

Robert  listened  to  the  whole  luckless  story  with  astonishment 
and  dismay.  This  particular  possibility  of  mischief  had  gone 
out  of  his  mind  for  some  time.  He  had  been  busy  in  his  East 
End  work.  Catherine  had  been  silent.  Over  how  many  mat- 
ters they  would  once,  have  discussed  with  open  heart  was  she 
silent  now? 

^'  I  ought  to  have  been  warned,"  he  said,  with  quick  decision, 

if  you  knew  this  was  going  on.  I  am  the  only  man  among 
you,  and  I  understand  Langham  better  than  the  rest  of  you. 
I  might  have  looked  after  the  poor  child  a  little." 

Catherine  accepted  the  reproach  mutely  as  one  little  smart 
the  more.  However,  what  had  she  known  ?  She  had  seen  noth- 
ing unusual  of  late,  nothing  to  make  her  think  a  crisis  w^as  ap- 
proaching. Nay,  she  had  flattered  herself  that  Mr.  Flaxman, 
whom  she  liked,  was  gaining  ground. 

Meanwhile  Robert  stood  pondering  anxiously  what  could  be 
done.    Could  anything  be  done  ? 

' '  1  must  go  and  see  him, "  he  said,  presently.  ' '  Yes,  dearest, 
I  must.  Impossible  the  thing  should  be  left  so !  I  am  his  old 
friend— almost  her  guardian.  You  say  she  is  in  great  trouble 
—why,  it  may  shadow  her  whole  life !   No— he  must  explain 


B#BEBT  ELSMEBE. 


to  US— he  is  bound  to—he  shall.  It  may  b#  something 
comparatively  trivial  in  the  way  after  all— money  or  prospects 
or  something  of  the  sort.  You  have  not  seen  the  letter,  you  say  ? 
It  is  the  last  marriage  in  the  world  one  could  have  desired  for 
jier— but  if  she  loves  him,  Catherine,  if  she  loves  him—" 

He  turned  to  her—appealing,  remonstrating.  Catherine 
stood  pale  and  rigid.  Incredible  that  he  should  think  it  right 
to  intermeddle— to  take  the  smallest  step  toward  reversing  so 
plain  a  declaration  of  God's  will !  She  could  not  sympathize— 
she  would  not  consent.  Robert  watched  her  in  painful  inde- 
cision. He  knew  that  she  thought  him  indifferent  to  her  true 
reason  for  finding  some  comfort  even  in  her  sister's  trouble- 
that  he  seemed  to  her  mindful  only  of  the  passing  human 
misery,  indifferent  to  the  eternal  risk. 

They  stood  sadly  looking  at  one  another.  Then  he  snatched 
up  his  hat. 

I  must  go,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice;    it  is  right." 

And  he  went — stepping,  however,  with  the  best  intentions  in 
the  world,  into  a  blunder. 

Catherine  sat  painfully  struggling  with  herself  after  he  had 
left  her.  Then  some  one  came  into  the  room — some  one  with 
pale  looks  and  flashing  eyes.   It  was  Agnes. 

She  just  let  me  in  to  tell  me,  and  put  me  out  again,"  said 
the  girl— her  whole,  even,  cheerful  self  one  flame  of  scorn  and 
wrath.  What  are  such  creatures  made  for,  Catherine— why 
do  they  exist?" 

Meanwhile  Robert  had  trudged  off  through  the  frosty  morn- 
ing streets  to  Langham's  lodgings.  His  mood  was  very  hot  by 
the  time  he  reached  his  destination,  and  he  climbed  the  stair- 
case to  Langham's  room  in  some  excitement.  When  he  tried 
to  open  the  door  after  the  answer  to  his  knock  bidding  him 
enter,  he  found  something  barring  the  way.  Wait  a  little," 
said  the  voice  inside,    I  will  move  the  case." 

With  difficulty  the  obstacle  was  removed  and  the  door  opened. 
Seeing  his  visitor,  Langham  stood  for  a  moment  in  somber  as- 
tonishment.  The  room  was  littered  with  books  and  packing- 
cases  with  which  he  had  been  bnsy. 
•  v  Come  in,"  he  said,  not  offering  to  shake  hands. 

'Robert  shut  the  door,  and,  picking  his  way  among  the  books, 
stood  leaning  on  the  back  of  the  chair  Langham  pointed  out 
to  him.   Langham  paused  opposite  to  him,  his  waving  jet- 


530 


BOBEBT  ELSMEBE. 


black  hair  falling  forward  over  the  marble  pale  face  which  had 
been  Eobert's  young  ideal  of  manly  beauty. 

The  two  men  were  only  six  years  distant  in  age,  but  so  strong 
is  old  association  that  Robert's  feeling  toward  his  friend  had 
always  remained  in  many  respects  the  feeling  of  the  under- 
graduate toward  the  don.  His  sense  of  it  now  filled  him  with 
a  curious  awkwardness. 

I  know  why  you  are  come,''  said  Langham,  slowly,  after 
a  scrutiny  of  his  visitor. 

^'lam  here  by  a  mere  accident,"  said  the  other,  thinking 
perfect  frankness  best.  ' '  My  wife  was  present  when  her  sister 
received  your  letter.  Rose  gave  her  leave  to  tell  me.  I  had  gone 
up  to  ask  after  them  all,  and  came  on  to  you— of  course  on 
my  own  responsibility  entirely  !  Rose  knows  nothing  of  my 
coming — nothing  of  what  I  have  to  say." 

He  paused,  struck  against  his  will  by  the  looks  of  the  man 
before  him.  Whatever  he  had  done  during  the  past  twenty- 
four  hours  he  had  clearly  had  the  grace  to  suffer  in  the  doing 
of  it. 

**You  can  have  nothing  to  say!"  said  Langham,  leaning 
against  the  chimney-piece  and  facing  him  with  black,  darkly 
burning  eyes.      You  know  me." 

Never  had  Robert  seen  him  under  this  aspect.  All  the  de- 
spair, all  the  bitterness  hidden  imder  the  languid  student's 
exterior  of  every  day,  had,  as  it  were,  risen  to  the  surface.  He 
stood  at  bay,  against  his  friend,  against  himself. 

No!"  exclaimed  Robert,  stoutly.  I  do  not  know  you  in 
the  sense  you  mean.  I  do  not  know  you  as  the  man  who  could 
beguile  a  girl  ou  'to  a  confession  of  love,  and  then  tell  her  that 
for  you  marriage  was  too  great  a  burden  to  be  faced  !" 

Langham  started,  and  then  closed  his  lips  in  an  iron  silence. 
Robert  repented  him  a  httle.  Langham's  strange  individuahty 
always  impressed  him  against  his  will. 

I  did  not  come  simply  to  reproach  you,  Langham,"  he  went 
on,  though  I  confess  to  being  very  hot!  I  came  to  try  and 
find  out— for  myself  only,  mind — whether  what  prevents  you 
from  following  up  what  I  understand  happened  last  night  is 
really  a  matter  of  feeling,  or  a  matter  of  outward  circumstance. 
If,  upon  reflection,  you  find  that  your  feeling  for  Rose  is  not 
what  you  imagined  it  to  be,  I  shall  have  my  own  opinion  about 
your  conduct— but  I  shall  be  the  first  to  acquiesce  in  what  you 
have  done  this  morning.   If,  on  the  other  hand,  you  are  sim- 


BOBEET  ELSMERE. 


631 


afraid  of  yourself  in  harness,  and  afraid  of  the  responsibili- 
ties of  practical  married  life,  I  can  not  help  begging  you  to  talk 
the  matter  over  with  me,  and  let  us  face  it  together.  Whether 
Eose  would  ever,  under  any  circumstances,  get  over  the  shock 
of  this  morning  I  have  not  the  remotest  idea.  But  "—and  he 
hesitated— '4t  seems  the  feeling  you  appealed  to  yesterday  has 
been  of  long  growth.  You  know  perfectly  well  what  havoc  a 
thing  of  this  kind  may  make  in  a  girl's  life.  I  don't  say  it 
will.  But,  at  any  rate,  it  is  all  so  desperately  serious  I  could 
not  hold  my  hand.  I  am  doing  what  is  no  doubt  wholly  un- 
conventional ;  but  I  am  your  friend  and  her  brother ;  I  brought 
you  together,  and  1  ask  you  to  take  me  into  counsel.  If  you 
had  but  done  it  before !" 

There  was  a  moment's  dead  silence. 
You  can  not  pretend  to  believe,"  said  Langham  at  last, 
with  the  same  somber  self-containedness,  **that  a  marriage 
with  me  would  be  for  your  sister-in-law's  happiness?" 

don't  know  what  to  believe !"  cried  Eobert.  ^^No,"he 
added,  frankly,  **no;  when  I  saw  you  first  attracted  by  Rose 
at  Murewell  I  disliked  the  idea  heartily ;  I  was  glad  to  see  you 
separated;  apinori^  I  never  thought  you  suited  to  each  other. 
But  reasoning  that  holds  good  when  a  thing  is  wholly  in  the 
air  looks  very  different  when  a  man  has  committed  himself 
and  another,  as  you  have  done." 

Langham  surveyed  him  for  a  moment,  then  shook  his  hair 
impatiently  from  his  eyes  and  rose  from  his  bending  position 
by  the  fire. 

Elsmere,  there  is  nothing  to  be  said !  I  have  behaved  as  vile- 
ly as  you  please.  I  have  forfeited  your  friendship.  But  I  should 
be  an  even  greater  fiend  and  weakUng  than  you  think  me  if,  in 
cold  blood,  I  could  let  your  sister  run  the  risk  of  marrying  me. 
I  could  not  trust  myself— you  may  think  of  the  statement  as 
you  like~I  should  make  her  miserable.  Last  night  I  had  not 
parted  from  her  an  hour  before  I  was  utterly  and  irrevocably 
sure  of  it.  My  habits  are  my  masters.  I  believe,"  he  added, 
slowly,  his  eyes  fixed  weirdly  on  something  beyond  Eobert, 
could  even  grow  to  hate  what  came  between  me  and  them !" 

Was  it  the  last  word  of  the  man's  life?  It  struck  Eobert 
with  a  kind  of  shiver. 

"Pray  Heaven,"  he  said,  with  a  groan,  getting  up  to  go, 

you  may  not  have  made  her  miserable  already !" 

"Did  it  hurt  her  so  much?"  asked  Langham,  almost  in- 


502  R^ERT  ELSMERE. 

audibly,  turning  away,  Robert's  tone  meanwhile  calling  up  a 
new  and  scorching  image  in  the  subtle  brain  tissue. 

"I  have  not  seen  her,"  said  Robert,  abruptly;  ''but  when  I 
came  in  I  found  my  wife— who  has  no  hght  tears— weeping  for 
her  sister." 

His  voice  dropped  as  though  what  he  were  saying  wore  in 
truth  too  pitiful  and  too  intimate  for  speech. 

Langham  said  no  more.  His  face  had  become  a  marble  mask 
again. 

''Good-bye!"  said  Robert,  taking  up  his  hat  with  a  dismal 
sense  of  having  got  foohshly  through  a  fool's  errand.  "As  I 
said  to  you  before,  what  Rose's  feeling  is  at  this  moment  I  can 
not  even  guess.  Very  likely  she  would  b^  the  first  to  repudiate 
half  of  what  I  have  been  saying.  And  I  see  that  you  will  not 
talk  to  me — you  will  not  take  me  into  your  confidence  and 
speak  to  me  not  only  as  her  brother,  but  as  your  friend.  And 
— and— are  you  going?   What  does  this  mean?" 

He  looked  interrogatively  at  the  open  packing-cases. 

"I  am  going  back  to  Oxford,"  said  the  other,  briefly.  "I 
.  can  not  stay  in  these  rooms,  in  these  streets." 

Robert  was  sore  perplexed.  What  real— nay,  what  terrible 
suffering— in  the  face  and  manner,  and  yet  how  futile,  how 
needless !  He  felt  himself  wresthng  with  something  intangible 
and  phantom-like,  wholly  unsubstantial,  and  yet  endowed  with 
a  ghastly  indefinite  power  over  human  life. 

"It  is  very  hard,"  he  said,  hurriedly,  moving  nearer,  "that 
our  old  friendship  should  be  crossed  like  this:  Do  trust  me  a 
little !  You  are  always  undervaluing  yourself.  Why  not  take 
a  friend  into  council  sometimes  when  you  sit  in  judgment  on 
yourself  and  your  possibilities?  Your  own  perceptions  are  all 
warped !" 

Langham,  looking  at  him,  thought  his  smile  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  and  one  of  the  most  irrelevant  things  he  had  ever  seen. 

"I  will  write  to  you,  Elsmere,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand; 
"  speech  is  impossible  to  me.  I  never  had  any  words  except 
through  my  pen. " 

Robert  gave  it  up.  In  another  minute  Langham  was  left 
alone. 

But  he  did  no  more  packing  for  hours.  He  spent  the  middle 
of  the  day  sitting  dumb  and  immovable  in  his  chair.  Imagina- 
tion was  at  work  again  more  feverishly  than  ever.  He  was 
tortured  by  a  fixed  image  of  Rose,  suffering  and  paling. 


EGBERT  ELSMEEB. 


And  after  a  certain  number  of  hours  he  could  no  more  bear 
the  incubus  of  this  thought  than  he  could  put  up  with  the  flat 
prospects  of  married  life  the  night  before.  He  was  all  at  sea, 
barely  sane,  in  fact.  His  hfe  had  been  so  long  purely  intel- 
lectual that  this  sudden  strain  of  passion  and  fierce  practical 
interests  seemed  to  unhinge  him,  to  destroy  his  mental  balance. 

He  bethought  him.  This  afternoon  he  knew  she  had  a  last 
rehearsal  at  Searle  House.  Afterward  her  custom  was  to  come 
back  from  St.  James's  Park  to  High  Street,  Kensington,  and 
walk,  up  the  hill  to  her  own  home.  He  knew  it,  for  on  two 
occasions  after  these  rehearsals  he  had  been  at  Lerwick  Gar- 
dens, waiting  for  her,  with  Agnes  and  Mrs.  Leyburn.  Would 
she  go  this  afternoon?  A  subtle  instinct  told  him  that  she  would. 

It  was  nearly  six  o'clock  that  evening  when  Rose,  stepping 
out  from  the  High  Street  station.,  crossed  the  main  road  and 
passed  into  the  darkness  of  one  of  the  streets  leading  up  the 
hill.  She  had  forced  herself  to  go,  and  she  would  go  alone. 
But  as  she  toiled  along  she  felt  weary  and  bruised  all  over. 
She  carried  with  her  a  heart  of  lead— a  sense  of  utter  soreness 
—a  longing  to  hide  herself  from  eyes  and  tongues.  The  only 
thing  that  dwelt  softly  in  the  shaken  mind  was  a  sort  of  inconse- 
quent memory  of  Mr.  Flaxman's  manner  at  the  rehearsal. 
Had  she  looked  so  ill?  She  flushed  hotly  at  the  thought,  and 
then  realized  si^am,  with  a  sense  of  childish  comfort,  the  kind 
look  and  ^oice,  th<G  delicate  care  shown  in  shielding  her  from 
any  uune^ssary  exertion,  the  brotherly  grasp  of  the  hand  with 
which  he  had  put  her  into  the  cab  that  took  her  to  the  Under- 
ground. 

Suddenly,  where  the  road  made  a  dark  turn  to  the  right,  she 
saw  a  man  standing.  As  she  came  nearer  she  saw  that  it  was 
Langham. 

You!"  she  cried,  stopping. 
^    He  came  up  to  her.   There  was  a  light  over  the  door-way  of 
/a  large  detached  house  not  far  off,  which  drew  a  certain  illumi- 
nation over  him,  though  it  left  her  in  shadow.    He  said  noth- 
ing, but  he  held  out  both  his  hands  mutely.    She  fancied 
rather  than  saw  the  pale  emotion  of  his  look. 

What?"  she  said,  after  a  pause.  You  think  to-night  is 
last  night!  You  and  I  have  nothing  to  say  to  each  other,  Mr. 
Langham." 


634 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


I  have  everything  to  say,"  he  answered,  under  his  breath ; 

I  have  committed  a  crime— a  villainy." 
And  it  is  not  pleasant  to  you?"  she  said,  quivering.  I 
am  sorry— I  can  not  help  you.  But  you  are  wrong— it  was  no 
crime— it  was  neccessary  and  profitable,  like  the  doses  of  one's 
childhood !  Oh !  I  might  have  guessed  you  would  do  this !  No, 
Mr.  Langham,  lam  in  no  danger  of  an  interesting  decline.  I 
have  just  played  my  concerto  very  fairly.  I  shall  not  disgrace 
myself  at  the  concert  to-morrow  night.  You  may  be  at  peace 
—I  have  learned  several  things  to-day  that  have  been  salutary 
— very  salutary." 

She  paused.  He  walked  beside  her  while  she  pelted  him— 
unresisting,  helplessly  silent. 

Don't  come  any  further,"  she  said,  resolutely,  after  a  min- 
ute, turning  to  face  him.  ''Let  us  be  quits!  I  was  a  tempt- 
ingly  easy  prey.  I  bear  no  malice.  And  do  not  let  me  break 
your  friendship  with  Robert;  that  began  before  this  foolish 
business— it  should  outlast  it.  Very  likely  we  shall  be  friends 
again,  like  ordinary  people,  some  day.  I  do  not  imagine  your 
wound  is  very  deep,  and—" 

But  no !  Her  lips  closed ;  not  even  for  pride's  sake,  and  restort's 
sake,  will  she  desecrate  the  past,  belittle  her  own  first  love. 

She  held  out  her  hand.  It  was  very  dark.  He  could  see 
nothing  among  her  furs  but  the  gleaming  whiteness  of  her  face. 
The  whole  personality  seemed  centered  in  the  voice— the  half- 
mocking,  vibrating  voice.  He  took  her  hand  and  dropped  it 
instantly. 

''You  do  not  understand,"  he  said,  hopelessly— feeling  as 
though  every  phrase  he  uttered,  or  could  utter,  were  equally 
fatuous,  equally  shameful.  "Thank  Heaven,  you  never  will 
understand." 

"I  think  I  do,"  she  said,  with  a  change  of  tone,  and  pausea. . 
He  raised  his  eyes  involuntarily,  met  hers,  and  stood  bewil- 
dered. What  was  the  expression  in  them?  It  was  yearning— 
but  not  the  yearning  of  passion.  "  If  things  had  been  different 
—if  one  could  change  the  self— if  the  past  were  nobler  !"—wa^ 
that  the  cry  of  them?  A  painful  humility— a  boundless  pitj 
—the  rise  of  some  moral  wave  within  her  he  could  neither 
measurenor  explain— these  were  some  of  the  impressions  which 
passed  from  her  to  him.  A  fresh  gulf  opened  between  them, 
and  he  saw  her  transformed  {on  the  further  side,  with,  as  it 


EGBERT  ELSMERE. 


585 


were,  a  loftier  gesture,  a  nobler  stature,  than  had  ever  yet 
been  hers. 

He  bent  forward  quickly,  caught  her  hands,  held  them  for 
an  instant  to  his  lips  in  a  convulsive  grasp,  dropped  them,  and 
was  gone. 

He  gained  his  own  room  again.  There  lay  the  medley  of 
his  books,  his  only  friends,  his  real  passion.  Why  had  he  ever 
tampered  with  any  other? 

It  was  not  love— not  loveT  he  said  to  himself,  with  an  ac- 
cent of  infinite  relief  as  he  sunk  into  his  chair.  Her  smart 
will  heal." 


BOOK  VL—NEW  OPENINGS. 
CHAPTER  XXXVn. 

Ten  dajrs  af ter^Langham's  return  to  Oxford  El§mere  received 
a  characteristic  letter  from  him,  asking  whether  their  friend- 
ship was  to  be  considered  as  still  existing  or  at  an  end.  The 
calm  and  even  proud  melancholy  of  the  letter  showed  a  con- 
siderable subsidence  of  that  state  of  half -frenzied  irritation  and 
discomfort  in  which  Elsmere  had  last  seen  him.  The  writer, 
indeed,  was  clearly  settling  down  into  another  period  of  pessi- 
mistic quietism  such  as  that  which  had  followed  upon  his  first 
young  efforts  at  self-assertion  years  before.  But  this  second 
period  bore  the  marks  of  an  even  profounder  depression  of  all 
the  vital  forces  than  the  first,  and  as  Elsmere,  with  a  deep 
sigh,  half  angry,  half  relenting,  put  down  the  letter,  he  felt  the 
conviction  that  no  fresh  influence  from  outside  would  ever 
again  be  allowed  to  penetrate  the  solitude  of  Langham's  life. 
In  comparison  with  the  man  who  had  just  addressed  him,  the 
tutor  of  his  under-graduate  recollections  was  a  vigorous  and 
sociable  human  being. 

The  relenting  grew  upon  him,  and  he  wrote  a  sensible,  affec- 
tionate letter  in  return.  ,  Whatever  had  been  his  natural  feel- 
mgs  of  resentment,  he  said,  he  could  not  realize,  now  that  the 
crisis  was  past,  that  he  cared  less  about  his  old  friend.  As 
far  as  we  two  are  concerned,  let  us  forget  it  all.  I  could  hardly 
say  this,  you  will  easily  imagine,  if  I  thought  that  you  had 
done  serious  or  irreparable  harm.  But  both  my  wife  and  I 
agree  now  in  thinking  that  by  a  pure  accident,  as  it  were,  and 
to  her  own  surprise,  Rose  hais  escaped  either.   It  will  be  some 


53S 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


time,  no  doubt,  before  she  will  admit  it.  A  girl  is  not  so  easily 
disloyal  to  her  past.  But  to  us  it  is  tolerably  clear.  At  any 
rate,  I  send  you  our  opinion  for  what  it  is  worth,  believing 
that  it  will  and  must  be  welcome  to  you." 

Rose,  however,  was  not  so  long  in  admitting  it.  One  marked 
result  of  that  new  vulnerableness  of  soul  produced  in  her  by 
the  shock  of  that  February  morning  was  a  great  softening 
toward  Catherine.  Whatever  might  have  been  Catherine's 
intense  relief  when  Robert  returned  from  his  abortive  mission, 
she  never  afterward  let  a  disparaging  word  toward  Langham 
escape  her  lips  to  Rose.  She  was  tenderness  and  sympathy 
itself,  and  Rose,  in  her  curious  reaction  against  her  old  self,  and 
against  the  noisy  world  of  flattery  and  excitement  in  which 
she  had  been  hving,  turned  to  Catherine  as  she  had  never  done 
since  she  was  a  tiny  child.  She  would  spend  hours  in  a  comer 
of  the  Bedford  Square  drawing-room,  pretending  to  read,  or 
play  with  little  Mary,  in  reality  recovering,  like  some  bruised 
and  trodden  plant,  under  the  healing  influence  of  thought  and 
silence. 

One  day,  when  they  were  alone  in  the  fire-light,  she  startled 
Catherine  by  saying,  with  one  of  her  old  odd  smiles : 

"  Do  you  know,  Cathie,  how  I  always  see  myself  nowadays? 
It  is  a  sort  of  hallucination.  I  see  a  girl  at  the  foot  of  a  preci- 
pice. She  has  had  a  fall,  and  she  is  sitting  up,  feeling  all  her 
limbs.  And,  to  her  great  astonishment,  there  is  no  bone 
broken  1" 

And  she  held  herself  back  from  Catherine's  knee  lest  her 
sister  should  attempt  to  caress  her,  her  eyes  bright  and  calm. 
Nor  would  she  allow  an  answer,  drowning  all  that  Catherine 
might  have  said  in  a  sudden  rush  after  the  child,  who  was 
wandering  round  them  in  search  of  a  playfellow. 

In  truth,  Rose  Leybum's  girhsh  passion  for  Edward  Lang- 
ham  had  been  a  kind  of  accident  um'elated  to  the  main  force? 
of  character.  He  had  crossed  her  path  in  a  moment  of  discon- 
tent, of  aimless  revolt  and  longing,  when  she  was  but  fresh 
emerged  from  the  cramping  conditions  of  her  childhood  and 
trembling  on  the  brink  of  new  and  unknown  activities.  His 
intellectual  prestige,  his  melancholy,  his  personal  beauty,  his 
very  strangenesses  and  weaknesses,  had  made  a  deep  impression 
on  the  girl's  immature  romantic  sense.  His  resistance  had  in- 
creased the  charm,  and  the  interval  of  angry  resentful  separa- 
tion had  done  nothing  to  weaken  it   As  to  the  months  in  Lon- 


9 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


don,  they  had  been  one  long  duel  between  herself  and  him— a 
duel  which  had  all  the  fascination  of  diflaculty  and  uncertainty, 
but  in  which  pride  and  caprice  had  dealt  and  sustained  a  large 
proportion  of  the  blows.  Then,  after  a  naoment  of  intoxicat- 
ing victory,  Langham's  endangered  habits  and  threatened  indi- 
viduality had  asserted  themselves  once  for  all.  And  from  the 
whole  long  struggle— passi'on,  exultation,  and  crushing  defeat 
—it  often  seemed  to  her  that  sh'e  had  gained  neither  joy  nor 
irreparable  grief,  but  a  new  birth  of  character,  a  soul! 

It  may  be  easily  imagined  that  Hugh  Flaxman  felt  a  pecu- 
liarly keen  interest  in  Langham's  disappearance.  On  the  after- 
noon of  the  Searle  House  rehearsal  he  had  awaited  Rose's 
coming  in  a  state  of  extraordinary  irritation.  He  expected  a 
blushing  ^ancee,  in  a  fool's  paradise,  asking  by  manner,  if  not 
by  word,  for  his  congratulations,  and  taking  a  decent  feminine 
pleasure  perhaps  in  the  pang  she  might  suspect  in  him.  And 
he  had  already  taken  his  pleasure  in  the  planning  of  some 
double-edged  congratulations. 

Then  up  the  steps  of  the  concert  platform  there  came  a  pale, 
tired  girl,  who  seemed  specially  to  avoid  his  look,  who  found  a 
quiet  corner  and  said  hardly  a  word  to  anybody  till  her  turn 
came  to  play. 

His  revulsion  of  feeling  was  complete.  After  her  piece  he 
made  his  way  up  to  her,  and  was  her  watchful,  unobtrusive 
guardian  for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon. 

He  walked  home  after  he  had  put  her  into  her  cab  in  a  whirl 
of  impatient  conjecture. 

**As  compared  to  last  night,  she  looks  this  afternoon  as  if 
she  had  had  an  illness!  What  on  earth  has  that  philandering 
ass  been  about?  If  he  did  not  propose  to  her  last  night,  he 
ought  to  be  shot — and  if  he  did,  a  fortiori^  for  clearly  she  is 
miserable.  But  what  a  brave  child !  How  she  played  her  part! 
I  wonder  whether  she  thinks  that  I  saw  nothing,  like  all  the 
rest  I   Poor  little  cold  hand !" 

Next  day  in  the  street  he  met  Elsmere,  turned  and  walked 
with  him,  and  by  dint  of  leading  the  conversation  a  little  dis- 
covered that  Langham  had  left  London. 

Gone !  But  not  without  a  crisis—that  was  evident.  During 
the  din  of  preparations  for  the  Searle  House  concert,  and  dur- 
ing the  meetings  which  it  entailed,  now  at  the  Varleys',  now 
at  the  house  of  some  other  connection  of  his— for  the  concert 
was  the  work  of  hi^  friends,  and  given  in  the  town  house  of 


538 


BOBEBT  ELSMEBE. 


his  decrepit  great-uncle,  Lord  Daniel— he  had  many  opportuni- 
ties of  observing  Eose.  And  he  felt  a  soft,  indefinable  change 
in  her  which  kept  him  in  a  perpetual  answering  vibration  of 
sympathy  and  curiosity.  She  seemed  to  him  for  the  moment 
to  have  lost  her  passionate  relish  for  living,  that  reUsh  which 
had  always  been  so  marked  with  her.  Her  bubble  of  social 
pleasure  was  pricked.  She  did  everything  she  had  to  do,  and 
did  it  admirably.  But  all  through  she  was  to  his  fancy  absent 
and  distraite,  pursuing  through  the  tumult  of  which  she  was 
often  the  central  figure  some  inner  meditations  of  which  neither 
he  nor  any  one  else  knew  anything.  Some  eclipse  had  passed 
over  the  girl's  hght,  self-satisfied  temper;  some  searching  thrill 
of  experience  had  gone  through  the  whole  ^ture.  She  had 
suffered,  and  she  was  quietly  fighting  down  her  suffering  with- 
out a  word  to  anybody. 

Flaxman's  guesses  as  to  what  had  happened  came  often  very 
near  the  truth,  and  the  mixture  of  indignation  and  relief  with 
which  he  received  his  own  conjectures  amused  himself. 

''To  think," he  said  to  himself  once,  with  a  long  breath, 
''that  that  creature  was  never  at  a  public  school,  and  will  go 
to  his  death  without  any  of  the  kickings  due  to  him !" 

Then  his  very  next  impulse,  perhaps,  would  be  an  impulse 
of  gratitude  toward  this  same  "creature,"  toward  the  man 
who  had  released  a  prize  he  had  had  the  tardy  sense  to  see 
was  not  meant  for  him.  Free  again — to  be  loved,  to  be  won ! 
There  was  the  fact  of  facts,  after  all. 

His  own  future  policy,  however,  gave  him  much  anxious 
thought.  Clearly  at  present  the  one  thing  to  be  done  was  to 
keep  his  own  ambitions  carefully  out  of  sight.  He  had  the 
skill  to  see  that  she  was  in  a  state  of  reaction,  of  moral  and 
mental  fatigue.  What  she  seemed  to  mutely  ask  of  her  friends 
was  not  to  be  made  to  feel. 

He  took  his  cue  accordingly.  He  talked  to  his  sister.  H« 
kept  Lady  Charlotte  in  order.  After  all  her  eager  expectation 
on  Hugh's  behalf,  Lady  Helen  had  been  dxunfounded  by  the 
sudden  emergence  of  Langham  at  Lady  Charlotte's  party  foi? 
their  common  discomfiture.  Who  was  the  man?— why,  whall 
did  il  all  mean?  Hugh  had  the  most  provoking  way  of  giving 
you  half  his  confidence.  To  tell  you  he  was  seriously  in  love, 
and  to  omit  to  add  the  trifling  item  that  the  girl  in  question  was 
probably  on  the  point  of  engaging  herself  to  somebody  else  I 
Lady  Helen  made  believe  to  be  angry,  and  it  was  not  till  she 


BOBEBT  ELSMEBE. 


539 


had  reduced  Hugh  to  a  whimsical  penitence  and  a  full  confes- 
sion of  all  he  knew  or  suspected,  that  she  consented,  with  as 
much  loftiness  as  the  physique  of  an  elf  allowed  her,  to  he  his 
good  friend  again,  and  to  play  those  cards  for  him  which  at  the 
moment  he  could  not  play  for  himself. 

So  in  the  cheeriest,  daintiest  way  Kose  was  made  much  of  by 
both  brother  and  sister.  Lady  Helen  chatted  of  gowns  and 
muisic  and  people,  whisked  Eose  and  Agnes  off  to  this  party 
and  that,  brought  fruit  and  flowers  to  Mrs.  Leybiu'n,  made 
pretty  deferential  love  to  Catherine,  and  generally,  to  Mrs. 
Pierson's  disgust,  became  the  girls'  chief  chaperon  in  a  fast- 
filling  London.  Meanwhile,  Mr.  Flaxman  was  always  there  to 
befriend  or  amuse  his  sister's  protegees — always  there,  but 
never  in  the  way.  He  was  bantering,  sympathetic,  critical, 
laudatory,  what  you  will ;  but  all  the  time  he  preserved  a  deli- 
cate distance  between  himself  and  Eose,  a  bright  nonchalance 
and  impersonaUty  of  tone  toward  her  which  made  his  compan- 
ionship a  perpetual  tonic.  And,  between  them,  he  and  Helen 
coerced  Lady  Charlotte.  A  few  inconvenient  inquiries  after 
Eose's  health,  a  few  unexplained  stares  and  ^'humphs"  and 
grunts,  a  few  irrelevant  disquisitions  on  her  nephew's  merits 
of  head  and  heart,  were  all  she  was  able  to  allow  herself.  And 
yet  she  was  inwardly  seething  with  a  mass  of  sentiments,  to 
which  it  would  have  been  pleasant  to  give  expression— anger 
with  Eose  for  having  been  so  blind  and  so  presumptuous  as  to 
prefer  some  one  else  to  Hugh;  anger  with  Hugh  for  his  per- 
sistent disregard  of  her  advice  and  the  duke's  feelings;  and  a 
burning  desire  to  know  the  why  and  wherefore  of  Langham's 
disappearance.  She  was  too  lofty  to  become  Eose's  aunt  with- 
out a  struggle,  but  she  was  not  too  lofty  to  feel  the  hungriest 
interest  in  her  love  affairs. 

But,  as  we  have  said,  the  person  who  for  the  time  profited 
most  by  Eose's  shaken  mood  was  Catherine.  The  girl  coming 
over,  restless  under  her  own  smart,  would  fall  to  watching  the 
trial  of  the  woman  and  the  wife,  and  would  often  perforce  for- 
get herself  and  her  smaller  woes  in  the  pity  of  it.  She  stayed 
in  Bedford  Square  once  for  a  week,  and  then  for  the  first  time 
she  realized  the  profound  change  which  had  passed  over  the 
Elsmeres'  life.  As  much  tenderness  between  husband  and 
wife  as  ever— perhaps  more  expression  of  it  even  than  before, 
as  though  from  an  instinctive  craving  to  hide  the  separateness 
below  from  each  other  and  from  the  world.   But  Eobert  went 


540 


ROBEET  ELSMERE. 


his  way,  Catherine  hers.  Their  spheres  of  work  lay  far  apart  ; 
their  interests  were  diverging  fast;  and  though  Robert  at  any 
rate  was  perpetually  resisting,  all  sorts  of  fresh  invadiog 
silences  were  always  coming  in  to  limit  talk,  and  increase  the 
number  of  sore  points  which  each  avoided.  Robert  was  hard 
at  work  in  the  East  End  under  Murray  Edwardes's  auspices. 
He  was  already  known  to  certain  circles  as  a  seceder  from  the 
Church  who  was  likely  to  become  both  powerful  and  popular. 
Two  articles  of  his  in  the  "Nineteenth  Century,"  on  disputed 
points  of  Bibhcal  criticism,  had  distinctly  made  their  mark, 
and  several  of  the  veterans  of  philosophical  debate  had  already 
taken  friendly  and  flattering  notice  of  the  new  writer.  Mean- 
while Catherine  was  teaching  in  Mr.  Clarendon's  Sunday- 
school,  and  attending  his  prayer  meetings.  The  more  expan- 
sive Robert's  energies  became,  the  more  she  sulfered,  and  the 
more  the  small  daily  opportunities  for  friction  multiplied. 
Soon  she  could  hardly  bear  to  hear  him  talk  about  his  work, 
and  she  never  opened  the  number  of  the  ''Nineteenth  Cen- 
tury" which  contained  his  papers.  Nor  had  he  the  heart  to 
ask  her  to  read  them. 

Murray  Edwardes  had  received  Elsmere,  on  his  first  appear- 
ance in  R  ,  with  a  cordiality  and  a  helpfulness  of  the  most 

self-effacing  kind.  Robert  had  begun  with  assuring  his  new 
friend  that  he  saw  no  chance,  at  any  rate  for  the  present,  of 
his  formally  joining  the  Unitarians. 

''  I  have  not  the  heart  to  pledge  myself  again  just  yet !  And 
I  own  I  look  rather  for  a  combination  from  many  sides  than 
for  the  development  of  any  now  existing  sect.  But  suppos- 
ing," he  added,  smiHng,  ''  supposing  I  do  in  time  set  up  a  con- 
gregation and  a  service  of  my  own,  is  there  really  room  for 
you  and  me?  Should  I  not  be  infringing  on  a  work  I  respect 
a  great  deal  too  much  for  anything  of  the  sort?" 

Edwardes  laughed  the  notion  to  scorn. 

The  parish,  as  a  whole,  contained  20,000  persons.  The  exist- 
ing churches,  which,  with  the  exception  of  St.  Wilfrid's,  were 
miserably  attended,  provided  accommodation  at  the  outside 
for  3,000.    His  own  chapel  held  400,  and  was  about  half  full. 

''You  and  I  may  drop  our  lives  here,"  he  said,  his  pleasant 
friendliness  darkened  for  a  moment  by  the  look  of  melancholy 
which  London  work  seems  to  develop  even  in  the  most 
buoyant  of  men,  "and  only  a  few  hundred . persons,  at  the 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


541 


most,  hereret  the  wiser.  Begin  with  us— then  make  your  owm 
circle." 

And  he  forthwith  carried  off  his  visitor  to  the  point  from 
which,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  Elsmere's  work  might  start,  viz., 
a  lecture-room  half  a  mile  from  his  own  chapel,  where  two 
helpers  of  his  had  just  established  an  independent  venture. 

Murray  Edwardes  had  at  the  time  an  interesting  and  mis- 
cellaneous staff  of  lay-curates.  He  asked  no  questions  as  to 
religious  opinions,  but  in  general  the  men  who  volunteered 
under  him— civil  servants,  a  young  doctor,  a  briefless  bar- 
rister or  two — were  men  who  had  drifted  from  received  be- 
liefs, and  found  a  pleasure  and  freedom  in  working  for  and 
with  him  they  could  hardly  have  found  elsewhere.  The  two 
who  had  planted  their  outpost  in  what  seemed  to  them  a  par- 
ticularly promising  comer  of  the  district  were  men  of  whom 
Edwardes  knew  personally  little.  I  have  really  not  much 
concern  with  what  they  do,"  he  explained  to  Elsmere,  ex- 
cept that  they  get  a  small  share  of  our  funds.  But  I  known 
they  want  help,  and  if  they  will  take  you  in,  I  think  you  will 
make  something  of  it." 

After  a  tramp  through  the  muddy  winter  streets,  they  came 
upon  a  new  block  of  warehouses,  in  the  lower  windows  of  which 
some  bills  announced  a  night-school,  for  boys  and  men.  Here, 
t6  judge  from  the  commotion  round  the  doors,  a  lively  scene 
was  going  on.  Outside,  a  gang  of  young  roughs  were  hammer- 
ing at  the  doors,  and  shrieking  witticisms  through  the  key-hole. 
Inside,  as  soon  as  Murray  Edwardes  and  Elsmere,  by  dint  oi 
good  humor  and  strong  shoulders,  had  succeeded  in  shoving 
their  way  through  and  shutting  the  door  behind  them,  they 
found  a  still  more  animated  performance  in  progress.  The 
school-room  was  in  almost  total  darkness;  the  pupils,  some 
twenty  in  number,  were  racing  about,  like  so  many  shadowy 
demons,  pelting  each  other  and  their  teachers  with  the  "  dips 
which,  as  the  buildings  were  new,  and  not  yet  fitted  for  gas, 
had  been  provided  to  light  them  through  their  three  E's.  In 
the  middle  stood  the  two  philanthropists  they  were  in  search 
of,  freely  bedaubed  with  tallow,  one  employed  in  boxing  a  boy's 
ears,  the  other  in  saving  a  huge  ink-bottle,  whereon  some  ^ter- 
prising  spirit  had  just  laid  hands  by  way  of  varying  the  rebel 
ammunition.  Murray  Edwardes,  who  was  in  his  element,  went 
to  the  rescue  at  once,  helped  by  Robert.  The  boy-minister,  as 
he  looked,  had  been,  in  fact,    bow"  of  the  Cambridge  ei^t, 


542 


EOBEET  ELSMEBE. 


and  possessed  muscles  which  men  twice  his  size  might  hare 
envied.  In  three  minutes  he  had  put  a  couple  of  ringleaders 
into  the  street  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck,  relighted  a  lamp  which 
had  been  turned  out,  and  got  the  rest  of  the  riotei-s  in  hand. 
Elsmere  backed  him  ably,  and  in  a  very  short  time  they  had 
cleared  the  premises. 

Then  the  four  looked  at  each  other,  and  Edwardes  went  off 
into  a  shout  of  laughter. 

My  dear  Wardlaw,  my  condolences  to  your  coat  !  But  I 
don't  believe  if  I  were  a  rough  myself  I  could  resist  'dips.' 
Let  me  introduce  a  friend— Mr.  Elsmere— and  if  you  will  have 
him,  a  recruit  for  your  work.  It  seems  to  me  another  pair  of 
arms  will  hardly  come  amiss  to  you  !" 

The  short,  red-haired  man  addressed  shook  hands  with  Els- 
mere, scrutinizing  him  from  imder  bushy  eyebrows.  He  was 
panting  and  beplastered  w^th  tallow,  but^  the  inner  man  was 
evidently  quite  unruffled,  and  Elsmere  Uked  the  shrewd  Scotch 
face  and  gray  eyes.  ^ 

It  isn't  only  a  pair  of  arms  vje  want,"  he  remarked,  dryly, 

but  a  bit  of  science  behind  them.  Mr.  Elsmere,  I  observed, 
can  use  his." 

Then  he  turned  to  a  tall,  affected-looking  youth  with  a  large 
nose  and  long  fair  hair,  who  stood  gasping  with  his  hands  upon 
his  sides,  his  eyes,  full  of  a  moody  wrath,  fixed  on  the  wreck 
and  disarray  of  the  school-room. 

''Well,  Mackay,  have  they  knocked  the  wind  out  of  you? 
My  friend  and  helper— Mr.  Elsmere.  Come  and  sit  down, 
won't  you,  a  minute?  They've  left  us  the  chairs,  I  perceive, 
and  there's  a  spark  or  two  of  fire.  Do  you  smoke  ?  Will  you 
Ught  up  ?" 

The  four  men  sat  on  chatting  some  time,  and  then  Wardlaw 
and  Elsmere  walked  home  together.  It  had  been  all  arranged.. 
Mackay,  a  curious,  morbid  fellow,  who  had  thrown  himself  into 
Unitarianism  and  charity,  mainly  out  of  opposition  to  an  ortho- 
dox and  bourgeois  family,  and  who  had  a  great  idea  of  his  own 
social  powers,  was  somewhat  grudging  and  ungra<3ious  through 
it  all.  But  Elsmere's  proposals  were  much  too  good  to  be  re- 
fused. He  offered  to  bring  to  the  undertaking  his  time,  his 
clergyman's  experience,  and  as  much  money  as  might  be 
wanted.  Wardlaw  listened  to  him  cautiously  for  an  hour, 
took  stock  of  the  whole  man  physically  and  morally,  and  finally 


EOBEBT  ELSMEEE. 


543 


said,  as  he  very  quietly  and  deliberately  knocked  the  ashes  out 
of  his  pipe : 

All  right,  I'm  your  man,  Mr.  Elsmere.  If  Mackay  agrees, 
I  vote  we  make  you  captain  of  this  venture." 

Nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  Elsmere.  "  In  London  I  am  a 
novice;  I  come  to  learn,  not  to  lead." 

Wardlaw  shook  his  head  with  a  little  shrewd  smile.  Mac- 
kay faintly  indorsed  his  companion's  offer,  and  the  party  broke 
up. 

That  was  in  January.  In  two  months  from  that  time,  by  the 
natural  force  of  things,  Elsmere,  in  spite  of  diffidence  and  his 
own  most  sincere  wish  to  avoid  a  premature  leadership,  had 
become  the  head  and  heart  of  the  Elgood  Street  undertaking, 
which  had  already  assumed  much  larger  proportions.  Ward- 
law  was  giving  his  silent  approval  and  invaluable  help,  while 
young  Mackay  was  in  the  first  uncomfortable  stages  of  a 
hero-worship  which  promised  to  be  exceedingly  good  for 
him. 

CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

There  were  one  or  two  curious  points  connected  with  the  be- 
ginnings of  Elsmere's  venture  in  North  E- — one  of  which 
may  just  be  noticed  here.  Wardlaw,  his  predecessor  and  col- 
league, had  speculatively  little  or  nothing  in  common  with  Els- 
mere or  Murray  Edwardes.  He  was  a  devoted  and  orthodox 
Comtist,  for  whom  Edwards  had  provided  an  outlet  for  the 
philanthropic  passion,  as  he  had  for  many  others  belonging  to 
far  stranger  and  remoter  faiths. 

By  profession  he  was  a  barrister,  with  a  small  and  struggling 
practice.  On  this  practice,  however,  he  had  married,  and  his 
wife,  who  had  been  a  doctor's  daughter  and  a  national  school- 
mistress, had  the  same  ardors  as  himself.  They  lived  in  one  of 
the  dismal  little  squares  near  the  Goswell  Road,  and  had  two 
children.  The  wife,  ^as  a  Positivist  mother  is  bound  to  do, 
tended  and  taught  her  children  entirely  herself.  She  might 
have  been  seen  any  day  wheeling  their  perambulator  through 
the  dreary  streets  of  a  dreary  region ;  she  was  their  providence, 
'  their  deity,  the  representative  to  them  of  all  tenderness  and  all 
authority.  But  when  her  work  with  them  was  done,  she  would 
throw  herself  into  charity  organization  cases,  into  efforts  for  the 
protection  of  work-house  servants,  into  the  homeliest  act  of  min- 
istry toward  the  sick,  till  her  dowdy  little  figure  and  her  face, 


544 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


which  but  for  the  stress  of  London,  of  labor,  and  of  poverty,  V  f 
would  have  had  a  blunt,  fresh- colored  dairy -maid's  charm,  be- 
came symbols  of  a  divine  and  sacred  helpfulness  in  the  eyes  of  ^ 
hundreds  of  straining  men  and  women.  [ 

The  husband  also,  after  a  day  spent  in  chambers,  would  give^i 
his  evenings  to  teaching  or  committee  work.  They  never  aH-;  i 
lowed  themselves  to  breathe  even  to  each  other  that  life  might?-:  y 
have  brighter  things  to  show  them  than  the  neighborhood  of '  [ 
the  Goswell  Eoad.  There  was  a  certain  narrowness  in  their  de-  ( 
votion;  they  had  their  bitternesses  and  ignorance  like  other  peo-  -  j 
pie;  but  the  more  Eobert  knew  of  them  the  more  profound  be*^-i  \ 
came  his  admiration  for  that  potent  spirit  of  social  help  which  i  | 
in  our  generation  Comtism  has  done  so  much  to  develop,  even,  il  i 
among  those  of  us  who  are  but  moderately  influenced  by  Conite's$  \ 
philosophy,  and  can  make  nothing  of  the  religion  of  Humanity. i 

Wardlaw  has  no  large  part  in  the  story  of  Elsmere's  work  iri|  j 

North  E  .    In  spite  of  Eobert's  efforts,  and  against  his  willj^. 

the  man  of  meaner  gifts  and  commoner  clay  was  eclipsed  by  that  i 
brilliant  and  persuasive  something  in  Elsmere  which  a  kindr  ] 
genius  had  infused  into  him  at  birth.  And  we  shall  see  that  in:  i 
time  Eobert's  energies  took  a  direction  which  Wardlaw  could ^;  i 
not  foUow  with  any  heartiness.  But  at  the  beginning  Elsmere  i 
owed  him  much,  and  it  was  a  debt  he  was  never  tired  of  hon-  I 
oring. 

In  the  first  place,  Wardlaw 's  choice  of  the  Elgood  Street  room 
as  a  fresh  center  for  civilizing  effort  had  been  extremely  shrewd. 
The  district  lying  about  it,  as  Eobert  soon  came  to  know,  con- 
tained a  number  of  promising  elements. 

Close  by  the  dingy  street  which  sheltered  their  school-room  \ 
rose  the  great  pile  of  a  new  factory  of  artistic  pottery,  a  rival 
on  the  north  side  of  the  river  to  Doulton's  immense  works  on 
the  south.   The  old  winding  streets  near  it,  and  the  blocks  of  i 
workmen's  dwellings  recently  erected  under  its  shadow,  were  ; 
largely  occupied  by  the  workers  in  its  innumerable  floors,  and 
among  these  workers  was  a  large  proportion  of  skilled  artisans, 
men  often  of  a  considerable  amount  of  cultivation,  earning 
high  wages,  and  maintaining  a  high  standard  of  comfort.  A 
great  many  of  them,  trained  in  the  art  school  which  Murray 
Edwardes  had  been  largely  instrumental  in  establishing  within 
easy  distance  of  their  houses,  were  men  of  genuine  artistic  gifts 
and  accomplishment,  and  as  the  development  of  one  faculty 
tends  on  the  whole  to  set  others  working,  when  Eobert,  after  a 


ROBERT  ELSMERK. 


545 


few  weeks'  work  in  the  place,  set  up  a  popular  historical  lecture 
once  a  fortnight,  announcing  the  fact  by  a  blue  and  white  poster 
in  the  school-room  windows,  it  was  the  potters  who  provided 
him  with  his  first  hearers. 

The  rest  of  the  parish  was  divided  between  a  population  of 
dock  laborers,  settled  there  to  supply  the  needs  of  the  great  dock 
which  ran  up  into  the  south-eastern  corner  of  it,  two  or  three 
huge  breweries,  and*a  colony  of  watch-makers,  an  offshoot  cf 
Clerkenwell,  who  lived  together  in  two  or  three  streets,  and 
showed  the  same  peculiarities  of  race  and  specialized  training 
to  be  noticed  in  the  more  northerly  settlement  from  which  they 
had  been  thrown  oif  like  a  swarm  from  a  hive.  Outside  these 
well-defined  trades  there  was,  of  course,  a  ware-house  popula- 
tion, and  a  mass  of  heterogeneous  cadging  and  catering  which 
went  on  chiefly  in  the  river-side  streets  at  the  other  side  of  the 
parish  from  Elgood  Street,  in  the  neighborhood  of  St.  Wilfrid's. 

St.  Wilfrid's  at  this  moment  seemed  to  Robert  to  be  doing  a 
very  successful  work  among  the  lowest  strata  of  the  parish. 
From  them  at  one  end  of  the  scale,  and  from  the  innumerable 
clerks  and  superintendents  who  during  the  day-time  crowded 
the  vast  ware-houses  of  which  the  district  was  full,  its  Lenten 
congregations,  now  in  full  activity,  were  chiefly  drawn. 

The  Protestant  opposition,  which  had  shown  itself  so  brutally 
and  persistently  in  old  days,  was  now,  so  far  as  outward  mani- 
festations went,  all  but  extinct.  The  cassocked,  monk-like 
clergy  might  preach  and  process"  in  the  open  air  as  much  as 
they  pleased.  The  populace,  where  it  was  not  indifferent,  was 
friendly,  and  devoted  living  had  borne  its  natural  fruits, 

A  small  incident,  which  need  not  be  recorded,  recalled  to 
Elsmere's  mind— after  he  had  been  working  some  six  weeks  in 
the  district— -the  forgotten,  unwelcome  fact  that  St.  Wilfrid's 
was  the  very  church  where  Newcome,  first  as  senior  curate  and 
then  as  vicar,  had  spent  those  ten  wonderful  years  into  which 
Elsmere  at  Murewell  had  been  never  tired  of  inquiring.  The 
thought  of  Newcome  was  a  very  sore  thought.  Elsmere  had 
written  to  him  announcing  his  resignation  of  his  living  imme- 
diately after  his  interview  with  the  bishop.  The  letter  had  re* 
mained  unanswered,  and  it  was  by  now  tolerably  clear  that  the 
silence  of  its  recipient  meant  a  withdrawal  from  all  friendly  re- 
lations with  the  writer.  Elsmere's  affectionate  sensitive  nature 
took  such  things  hardly,  especially  as  he  knew  that  Newcomers 
life  was  becoming  increasingly  difficult  and  imbittered.  Ab^I 


546 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


it  gave  him  now  a  fresh  pang  to  imagine  how  Newcome  would 

receive  the  news  of  his  quondam  friend's  ''infidel  propaganda," 
estabhshed  on  the  very  ground  where  he  himself  had  all  but 
died  for  those  beliefs  Elsmere  had  thrown  over. 

But  Robert  was  learning  a  certain  hardness  in  this  London 
life  which  was  not  without  its  uses  to  character.  Hitherto  he 
had  always  swam  with  the  stream,  cheered  by  the  support  of 
all  the  great  and  prevailing  English  traditfons.  Here,  he  and 
his  few  friends  were  fighting  a  solitary  fight  apart  from  the 
organized  system  of  English  religion  and  EngUsh  philan- 
thropy. All  the  elements  of  culture  and  religion  already  ex- 
'  isting  in  the  place  were  against  them.  The  clergy  of  St.  Wil- 
frid's passed  them  with  cold,  averted  eyes;  the  old  and  fain- 
eant rector  of  the  parish  church  very  soon  let  it  be  known 
what  he  thought  as  to  the  taste  of  Elsmere's  intrusion  on  his 
parish,  or  as  to  the  eternal  chances  of  those  who  might  take 
either  him  or  Edwardes  as  guides  in  matters  religious.  His 
enmity  did  Elgood  Street  no  harm,  and  the  pretensions  of  the 
Church,  in  this  Babel  of  20,000  souls,  to  cover  the  whole  field, 
bore  clearly  no  relation  at  all  to  the  facts.  But  every  little  in- 
cident in  this  new  struggle  of  his  hf  e  cost  Elsmere  more  perhaps 
than  it  would  have  cost  other  men.  No  part  of  it  came  easily 
to  him.  Only  a  high  Utopian  vision  drove  him  on  from  day 
to  day,  bracing  him  to  act  and  judge,  if  need  be,  alone  and  for 
himself,  approved  only  by  conscience  and  the  inward  voice. 

"  Tasks  in  hours  of  insight  willed 
Can  be  in  hours  of  gloom  fulfilled;" 

and  it  was  that  moment  by  the  river  which  worked  in  him 
through  all  the  prosaic  and  perplexing  details  of  this  new  at- 
tempt to  carry  enthusiasm  into  life. 

It  was  soon  plain  to  him  that  in  this  teeming  section  of  Lon- 
don the  chance  of  the  rehgious  reformer  lay  entirely  among 
the  upper  worJcing  class.  In  London,  at  any  rate,  aU  that  is 
most  prosperous  and  intelligent  among  the  working  class  holds 
itself  aloof— broadly  speaking—from  all  existing  spiritual 
agencies,  whether  of  Church  or  Dissent. 

Upon  the  genuine  London  artisan  the  Church  has  practi- 
cally no  hold  whatever;  and  Dissent  has  nothing  like  the  hold 
which  it  has  on  similar  material  in  the  great  towns  of  the 
north.  Toward  religion  in  general  the  prevailing  attitude  is 
one  of  indifference  tinged  with  hostihty.    "Eight  hundred 


BOBERT  ELSMERE. 


547 


thousand  people  in  South  London,  of  whom  the  enormous 
proportion  belong  to  the  working  class,  and  among  them, 
Church  and  Dissent  nowhere— Christianity  not  in  possession.'' 
Such  is  the  estimate  of  an  Evangelical  of  our  day  ;  and  similar 
laments  come  from  all  parts  of  the  capital.  The  Londoner  is 
on  the  whole  more  conceited,  more  prejudiced,  more  given 
over  to  crude  theorizing,  than  his  north  country  brother,  the 
mill-hand,  whose  mere  position,  as  one  of  a  homogeneous  and 
tolerably  constant  body,  subjects  him  to  a  continuous  disci- 
pline of  intercourse  and  discussion.  Our  popular  rehgion, 
broadly  speaking,  means  nothing  to  him.  He  is  sharp  enough 
to  see  through  its  contradictions  and  absurdities;  he  has  no 
dread  of  losing  what  he  never  valued ;  his  sense  of  antiquity, 
of  history,  is  nil;  and  his  life  supplies  him  with  excitement 
enough  without  the  stimulants  of  "  other- worldliness."  Eelig- 
ion  has  been  on  the  whole  irrationally  presented  to  him,  and 
the  result  on  his  part  has  been  an  irrational  breach  with  the 
whole  moral  and  religious  order  of  ideas. 

But  the  race  is  quick-witted  and  imaginative.  The  Greek 
cities  which  welcomed  and  spread  Christianity  carried  within 
them  much  the  same  elements  as  are  supplied  by  certain  sec- 
tions of  the  London  working  class— elements  of  restlessness,  of 
sensibility,  of  passion.  The  mere  intermingling  of  races, 
which  a  modern  capital  shares  with  those  old  towns  of  Asia 
Minor,  predisposes  the  mind  to  a  greater  openness  and  recep- 
tiveness,  whether  for  good  or  evil. 

As  the  weeks  passed  on,  and  after  the  first  inevitable  de- 
spondency produced  by  strange  surroundings  and  an  un- 
wonted isolation  had  begun  to  wear  off,  Eobert  often  found 
himself  filled  with  a  strange  flame  and  ardor  of  hope.  But  his 
first  steps  had  nothing  to  do  with  religion.  He  made  himself 
quickly  felt  in  the  night-school,  SJnd  as  soon  as  he  possibly 
could  he  hired  a  large  room  at  the  back  of  their  existing  room, 
on  the  same  floor,  where,  on  the  recreation  evenings,  he  might 
begin  the  "^ry-telling,  which  had  been  so  great  a  success  at 
Murewell.  The  story-telling  struck  the  neighborhood  as  a 
great  novelty.  At  first  only  a  few  youths  straggled  in  from 
the  front  room,  where  dominoes  and  draughts,  and  the  illus- 
trated papers  held  seductive  sway.  The  next  night  the  num- 
ber was  increased,  and  by  the  fourth  or  fifth  evening  the  room 
was  so  well  filled  both  by  boys  and  a  large  contingent  of  arti- 
sans, that  it  seemed  well  to  appoint  a  special  evening  in  the 


548 


EGBERT  ELSMEBB. 


week  for  story-teiling,  or  the  recreation-room  would  have  been 

deserted. 

In  these  performances  Elsmere's  aim  had  always  been  two- 
fold— the  rousing  of  moral  sympathy  and  the  awakening  of  the 
imaginative  power  pure  and  simple.  He  ranged  the  whole 
world  for  stories.  Sometimes  it  would  be  merely  some  feature 
of  London  life  itself — the  history  of  a  great  fire,  for  instance, 
and  its  hair-breadth  escapes;  a  collision  in  the  river;  astiing 
of  instances  as  true  and  homely  and  realistic  as  they  could  be 
made  of  the  way  in  which  the  poor  help  one  another.  Some- 
times it  would  be  stories  illustrating  the  dangers  and  difficul- 
ties of  particular  trades— a  colhery  explosion  and  the  daring  of 
the  rescuers;  incidents  from  the  life  of  the  great  northern  iron- 
works, or  from  that  of  the  Lancashire  factories ;  or  stories  of 
English  country  life  and  its  humors,  given  sometimes  in  dia- 
lect— Devonshire,  or  Yorkslure,  or  Cumberland— for  which  he 
had  a  special  gift.  Or,  again,  he  would  take  the  sea  and  its 
terrors— the  immortal  story  of  the  Birkenhead;"  the  deadly 
plunge  of  the  Captain;"  the  records  of  the  life-boats,  or  the 
fascinating  story  of  the  ships  of  science,  exploring  step  by 
step,  through  miles  of  water,  the  past,  the  inhabitants,  the  hills 
and  valleys  of  that  underworld,  that  vast  Atlantic  bed,  in 
which  Mont  Blanc  might  be  buried  without  showing  even  his 
topmost  snow-field  above  the  plain  of  waves.  Then  at  other 
times  it  would  be  the  simple  frolic  and  fancy  of  fiction— fairy 
tale  and  legend,  Greek  myth  or  Icelandic  saga,  episodes  from 
Walter  Scott,  from  Cooper,  from  Dumas;  to  be  followed  per- 
haps on  the  next  evening  by  the  terse  and  vigorous  biography 
of  some  man  of  the  people— of  Stephenson  or  Cobden,  of  Thomas 
Cooper  or  John  Bright,  or  even  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

One  evening,  some  weeks  after  it  had  begun,  Hugh  Flax- 
man,  hearing  from  Eose  of  the  success  of  the  experiment,  went 
down  to  hear  his  new  acquaintance  tell  the  story  of  Monte 
Cristo's  escape  from  the  Chateau  d'If.  He  started  an  hour 
earlier  than  was  necessary,  and  with  an  admirable  impartiality 
he  spent  that  hour  at  St.  Wilfrid's  hearing  vespers.  Flaxman 
had  a  passion  for  intellectual  or  social  novelty ;  and  this  passion 
was  beguiling  him  into  a  close  observation  of  Elsmere.  At  the 
same  time  he  was  crossed  and  compHcated  by  all  sorts  of  fas- 
tidious conservative  fibers,  and  when  his  friends  talked  rational, 
ism,  it  often  gave  him  a  vehement  pleasure  to  maintain  that  a 
good  Catholic  or  Ritualist  service  was  worth  all  their  argu. 


SOBERT  J2LSMERE. 


549 


ments,  and  would  outlast  them.  His  taste  drew  him  to  the 
Church,  so  did  a  love  of  opposition  to  current  "isms."  Bishops 
counted  on  him  for  subscriptions,  and  High  Church  divines 
sent  him  their  pamphlets.  He  never  refused  the  subscriptions, 
but  it  should  be  added  that  with  equal  regularity  he  dropped] 
the  pamphlets  into  his  waste-paper  basket.  Altogether  a  not 
very  decipherable  person  in  rehgious  matters  -as  Eose  had 
already  discovered. 

The  change  from  the  dim  and  perfumed  spaces  of  St.  Wil- 
frid's to  the  bare  warehouse  room  with  its  packed  rows  of 
hsteners  was  striking  enough.  Here  were  no  bowed  figures, 
no  reciieiUement.  In  the  blaze  of  crude  light  every  eager  eye 
was  fixed  upon  the  slight  elastic  figure  on  the  platform,  each 
change  in  the  expressive  face,  each  gesture  of  the  long' arms 
and  thin  flexible  hands,  finding  its  response  in  the  laughter, 
the  attentive  silence,  the  frowning  suspense  of  the  audience! 
At  one  point  a  band  of  young  roughs  at  the  back  made  a  dis- 
turbance, but  their  neighbors  had  the  offenders  quelled  and  out 
in  a  twinkling,  and  the  room  cried  out  for  a  repetition  of  the 
sentences  which  had  been  lost  in  the  noise.  When  Dantes, 
opening  his  knife  with  his  teeth,  managed  to  cut  the  strings  of 
the  sack,  a  gasp  of  rehef  ran  through  the  crowd ;  when  at  last 
he  reached  terra  firma  there  was  a  ringing  cheer. 

What  is  he,  d'ye  know  ?"  Flaxman  heard  a  mechanic  ask 
his  neighbor,  as  Eobert  paused  for  a  moment  to  get  breath,  the 
man  jerking  a  grimy  thumb  in  the  story-teller's  direction  mean- 
while. '  ^  Seems  like  a  parson  somehow.   But  he  ain't  a  parson. " 

*'Not  he,"  said  the  other,  laconically.  Knows  better. 
Most  of  'em  as  comes  down  'ere  stuffs  all  they  have  to  say  as 
full  of  goody-goody  as  an  egg's  full  of  meat.  If  he  wur  that 
sort  you  wouldn't  catch  me  here.  Never  heard  him  say  any- 
thing in  the  '  dear  brethren '  sort  of  style,  and  I've  been  'ere 
most  o'  these  evenings  and  to  his  lectures  besides." 

"Perhaps  he's  one  of  your  d  d  sly  ones,"  said  the  first 

speaker,  dubiously.    ''Means  to  shovel  it  in  by  and  by." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  as  I  couldn't  stand  it  if  he  did,  "re- 
turned his  companion.  He'd  let  other  fellers  have  their  say, 
anyhow.'' 

Flaxman  looked  curiously  at  the  speaker,  He  was  a  young 
man,  a  gas-fitter— to  judge  by  the  contents  of  the  basket  he 
seemed  to  have  brought  in  with  him  on  his  way  from  work— - 
with  eyes  like  live  birds',  and  small  emaciated  features.  Dm 


550  EOBBET  ELSMEKE. 

ing  the  story  Flaxman  had  noticed  the  man's  thin,  begrimed 
hand,  as  it  rested  on  the  bench  in  front  of  him,  trembling  with 
excitement. 

Another  project  of  Robert's,  started  as  soon  as  he  had  felt 
his  way  a  little  in  the  district,  was  the  scientific  Sunday-school. 
This  was  the  direct  result  of  a  paragraph  in  Huxley's  ''Lay 
Sermons,'^  where  the  hint  of  such  a  school  was  fii^st  thrown  out. 
However,  since  the  introduction  of  science  teaching  into  the 
Board  schools,  the  novelty  and  necessity  of  such  a  supplement 
to  a  child's  ordina-ry  education  is  not  what  it  was.  Robert 
set  it  up  mainly  for  the  sake  of  drawing  the  boys  out  of  the 
streets  in  the  afternoons,  and  providing  them  with  some  other 
food  for  fancy  and  delight  than  larking  and  smoking  and  penny 
dreadfuls.  A  Uttle  simple  chemical  and  electrical  experiment 
went  down  greatly;  so  did  a  botany  class,  to  which  Elsmere 
would  come  armed  with  two  stores  of  flowers,  one  to  be  picked 
to  pieces,  the  other  to  be  distributed  according  to  memory  and 
attention.  A  year  before  he  had  a  number  of  large  colored 
plates  of  tropical  fruits  and  flowers  prepared  for  him  by  a  Kew 
assistant.  These  he  would  often  set  up  on  a  large  screen,  or 
put  up  on  the  walls,  till  the  dingy  school-room  became  a  bower 
of  superb  blossom  and  luxuriant  leaf,  a  glow  of  red  and  purple 
and  orange.  And  then— still  by  the  help  of  pictures— he  would 
take  his  class  on  a  tour  through  strange  lands,  talking  to  them 
cff  China  or  Egypt  or  South  America,  till  they  followed  him  up 
the  Amazon,  or  into  the  pyramids,  or  through  the  Pampas,  or 
into  the  mysterious  buried  cities  of  Mexico,  as  the  children  of 
HameUn  followed  the  magic  of  the  Pied  Piper. 

Hardly  any  of  those  who  came  to  him,  adults  or  children, 
while  almost  aU  of  the  artisan  class,  were  of  the  poorest  class. 
He  knew  it,  and  had  laid  his  plans  for  such  a  result.  Such 
work  as  he  had  at  heart  has  no  chance  with  the  lowest  in  the 
social  scale,  in  its  beginnings.  It  must  have  something  to  work 
upon,  and  must  penetrate  downward.  He  only  can  receive 
who  already  hath— there  is  no  profounder  axiom. 

And  meanwhile  the  months  passed  an,  and  he  was  still  brood- 
ing, still  waiting.    At  last  the  spark  fell. 

There,  in  the  next  street  but  one  to  Elgood  Street,  rose  the 

famous  Workmen's  Club  of  North  R  .  It  had  been  started 

by  a  former  Liberal  clergyman  of  the  parish,  whose  main 
object,  however,  had  been  to  train  the  workmen  to  manage  it 
for  themselves.   His  training  had  been,  in  fact,  too  successful 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


551 


Not  only  was  it  now  wholly  managed  by  artisans,  but  it  had 
come  to  be  a  centre  of  active,  nay,  brutal,  opposition  to  the 
Church  and  faith  which  had  originally  fostered  it.  In  organic 
connection  with  it  was  a  large  debating  hall,  in  which  the  most 
notorious  secularist  lecturers  held  forth  every  Sunday  evening; 
and  next  door  to  it,  under  its  shadow  and  patronage,  was  a  lit- 
tle dingy  shop  filled  to  overflowing  with  the  coarsest  free-think- 
ing pubhcations.  Colonel  Ingersoll's  books  occupying  the  place 
of  honor  in  the  window  and  the  "Freethinker"  placard  flaunt- 
ing at  the  door.  Inside  there  was  stiU  more  highly  seasoned 
literature  even  than  the  '^Freethinker"  to  be  had.  There  was 
in  particular  a  smaU  half-penny  paper  which  was  understood  to 

be  in  some  sense  the  special  orgaii  of  the  North  R  Club ; 

which  was  at  any  rate  published  close  by,  and  edited  by  one  of 
the*  workmen  founders  of  the  club.  This  unsavory  sheet  began 
to  be  more  and  more  defiantly  advertised  through  the  parish  as 
Lent  drew  on  toward  Passion  week,  and  the  exertions  of  St. 
Wilfrid's  and  of  the  other  churches,  which  were  being  spurred 
on  by  the  Ritualists'  success,  became  more  apparent.  Soon  it 
seemed  to  Robert  that  every  bit  of  boarding  and  every  waste 
wall  was  filled  with  the  announcement : 

''Read  ' Faith  and  Fools.'  Enormous  success.  Our  '  Comic 
Life  of  Christ'  now  nearly  completed.  Quite  the  best  thing  of 
its  kina  going.   Wood-cut  this  week-— Transfiguration." 

His  heart  grew  fierce  within  him.  One  night  in  Passion 
week  ne  left  the  night-school  about  ten  o'clock.  His  way  led 
him  past  the  club,  which  was  brilliantly  lighted  up  and  evi- 
dently in  full  activity.  Round  the  door  there  was  a  knot  of 
workmen  lounging.  It  was  a  mild  moonlighted  April  night, 
and  the  air  was  pleasant.  Several  of  them  had  copies  of 
"Faith  and  Fools,"  and  were  showing  the  week's  wood-cut  to 
those  about  them,  with  chuckles  and  spurts  of  laughter. 

Robert  caught  a  few  words  as  he  hurried  past  them,  and 
stirred  by  a  sudden  impulse  turned  into  the  shop  beyond,  and 
asked  for  the  paper.  The  woman  handed  it  to  him,  and  gave 
him  his  change  with  a  business-like  sangfroid,  which  struck  on 
his  tired  nerves  almost  more  painf  uUy  than  the  laughing  bru- 
tality of  the  men  he  had  just  passed. 

Directly  he  found  himself  in  another  street  he  opened  the 
paper  under  a  lamp-post.  It  contained  a  caricature  of  the 
Crucifixion,  the  scroll  emanating  from  Mary  Magdalene's 


552 


ROBERT  ELSMEBB. 


mouth,  in  particular,  containing  obscenities  which  can  not  be 
quoted  here. 

Robert  thrust  it  into  his  pocket  and  strode  on,  every  nerve 
quivering. 

''This  is  Wednesday  in  Passion  week,"  he  said  to  himself. 

The  day  after  to-morrow  is  Good  Friday!" 

He  walked  fast  in  a  north-westerly  direction,  and  soon  found 
himself  within  the  city,  where  the  streets  were  long  since  empty 
and  silent.  But  he  noticed  nothing  around  him.  His  thoughts 
were  in  the  distant  East,  among  the  flat  roofs  and  white  v/alis 
of  Nazareth,  the  olives  of  Bethany,  the  steep  streets  and  rocky 
ramparts  of  Jerusalem.  He  had  seen  them  with  the  bodily  eye, 
and  the  fact  had  enormously  quickened  his  historical  percep- 
tion. The  child  of  Nazareth,  the  morahst  and  teacher  of 
Capernaum  and  Gennesaret,  the  strenuous  seer  and  martyr  of 
the  later  Jerusalem  preaching — all  these  various  images  sprung 
into  throbbing,  poetic  life  within  him.  That  anything  in  hu- 
man shape  should  be  found  capable  of  dragging  this  life  and  this 
death  through  the  mire  of  a  hideous  and  befouling  laughter! 
Who  was  responsible?  To  what  cause  could  one  trace  such  a 
temper  of  mind  toward  such  an  object— present  and  mihtant 
as  that  temper  is  in  all  the  crowded  centers  of  working  Hfe 
throughout  modern  Europe?  The  toiler  of  the  world  as  he 
matures  may  be  made  to  love  Socrates  or  Buddha  or  Marcus 
Aurelius.  It  would  seem  often  as  though  he  could  not  be 
made  to  love  Jesus!  Is  it  the  Nemesis  that  ultimately  dis- 
covers and  avenges  the  sublimest,  the  least  conscious  departure 
from  simplicity  and  verity?— is  it  the  last  and  most  terrible 
illustration  of  a  great  axiom :  ' '  Faith  has  a  judge— in  truth  f 

He  went  home  and  lay  awake  half  the  night  pondering.  If 
he  could  but  pour  out  his  heart!  B^jt  though  Catherine,  the 
wife  of  his  heart,  of  his  youth,  is  there,  close  beside  him,  doubt 
and  struggle  and  perplexity  are  alike  frozen  on  his  lips.  He 
cannot  speak  without  sympathy,  and  she  will  not  hear  except 
under  a  moral  compulsion  which  he  shrinks  more  and  more 
painfully  from  exercising. 

The  next  night  was  a  story  telling  night.  He  spent  it  in 
teUing  the  legend  of  St.  Francis.  When  it  was  over  he  asked 
the  audience  to  wait  a  moment,  and  there  and  then— with  the 
tender  imaginative  I'ranciscan  atmosphere,  as  it  were,  still 
about  them — he  delivered  a  short  and  vigorous  protest  in  the 
name  of  decency,  good  feeling  and  common  sense,  against  the 


BOBEBT  ELSMEBE. 


idiotic  profanities  with  which  the  whole  immediate  neighbor- 
hood seemed  to  be  reeking.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ap- 
proached any  rehgious  matter  directly.  A  knot  of  workmen 
sitting  together  at  the  back  of  the  room  looked  at  each  other 
with  a  significant  grimace  or  two. 

When  Robert  ceased  speaking  one  of  them,  an  elderly  watch- 
maker, got  up  and  made  a  dry  and  cynical  little  speech,  noth- 
ing moving  but  the  thin  lips  in  the  shriveled  mahogany  face. 
Robert  knew  the  man  well.  He  was  a  Genevese  by  birth, 
Calvinist  by  blood,  revolutionist  by  development.  He  com- 
plained that  Mr.  Elsmere  had  taken  his  audience  by  surprise ; 
tliat  a  good  many  of  those  present  understood  the  remarks  he 
had  just  made  as  an  attack  upon  an  institution  in  which  many 
of  them  were  deeply  interested ;  and  that  he  invited  Mr.  !^ls- 
mere  to  a  more  thorough  discussion  of  the  matter  in  a  place 
where  he  could  be  both  heard  and  answered. 

The  room  applauded  with  some  signs  of  suppressed  excite- 
ment. Most  of  the  men  there  were  accustomed  to  disputation 
of  the  sort  which  any  Sunday  visitor  to  Victoria  Park  may 
hear  going  on  there  week  after  week.  Elsmere  had  made  a 
vivid  impression ;  and  the  prospect  of  a  fight  with  him  had  an 
unusual  piquancy. 

Robert  sprung  up.  '^When  you  will,"  he  said.  *'I  am 
ready  to  stand  by  what  I  have  just  said  in  the  face  of  you  all, 
if  you  care  to  hear  it." 

Place  and  particulars  were  hastily  arranged,  subject  to  the 
approval  of  the  club  committee,  and  Elsmere's  audience 
separated  in  a  glow  of  curiosity  and  expectation. 

''Didn't  I  tell  ye?"  the  gas-fitter's  snarling  friend  said  to 
him.  "Scratch  him  and  you  find  the  parson.  These  upper- 
class  folk,  when  they  come  among  us  poor  ones,  always  seem 
to  me  just  hunting  for  souls,  as  those  Injuns  he  was  talking 
about  last  week  hunt  for  scalps.  They  can't  get  to  heaven 
without  a  certain  number  of  'em  slung  about  'em." 

''Wait  a  bit!"  said  the  gas-fitter^  his  quick  dark  eyes  be- 
traying a  certain  raised  inner  temperature. 

Next  morning  the  North  R  Club  was  placarded  with 

announcements  that  on  Easter-eve  next  Robert  Elsmere,  Esq., 
would  deliver  a  lecture  in  the  Debating  Hall  on  "  The  Claim 
of  Jesus  upon  Modern  Life,"  to  be  followed,  as  usual,  by  gen- 
eral discussion. 


UOmUT  ELSMEBB. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

It  was  the  afternoon  of  Good  Friday.  Catherine  had  been 
to  church  at  St.  Paul's,  and  Robert,  though  not  without  some 
inward  struggle,  had  accompanied  her.  Their  midday  meal 
was  over,  and  Robert  had  been  devoting  himself  to  Mary,  who 
had  been  tottering  round  the  room  in  his  wake,  clutching  one 
finger  tight  with  her  chubby  hand.  In  particular,  he  had  been 
coaxing  her  into  friendship  with  a  wooden  Japanese  dragon 
which  wound  itself  in  awful  yet  most  seductive  coils  round  the 
cabinet  at  the  end  of  the  room.  It  was  Mary's  weekly  task  to 
embrace  this  horror,  and  the  performance  went  by  the  name  of 
of  kissing  the  Jabber wock."  It  had  been  triumphantly 
achieved,  and,  as  the  reward  of  bravery,  Mary  was  being  car- 
ried round  the  room  on  her  father's  shoulder,  holding  on 
mercilessly  to  his  curls,  her  shining  blue  eyes  darting  scorn  at 
the  defeated  monster. 

At  last  Robert  deposited  her  on  the  rug  beside  a  fascinating 
farm-yard  which  lay  there  spread  out  for  her,  and  stood  look- 
ing, not  at  the  child,  but  at  his  wife.  . 

Catherine,  I  feel  so  much  as  Mary  did  three  minutes  ago!" 

She  looked  up  startled.  The  tone  was  light,  but  the  sad- 
ness, the  emotion  of  the  eyes,  contradicted  it. 

"  I  want  courage,"  he  went  on— '^courage  to  tell  you  some- 
thing that  may  hurt  you.   And  yet  I  ought  to  tell  it." 

Her  face  took  the  shrinking  expression  which  was  so  painful 
to  him.   But  she  waited  quietly  for  what  he  had  to  say. 

''You  know,  I  think,"  he  said,  looking  away  from  her  to 

the  gray  museum  outside,  ''that  my  work  in  R  hasn't 

been  religious  as  yet  at  all.  Oh,  of  course,  I  have  said  things 
here  and  there,  but  I  haven't  delivered  myself  in  any  way. 
Now  there  has  come  an  opening." 

And  he  described  to  her— while  she  shivered  a  little  and 
drew  herself  together— the  provocations  which  were  leading 
him  into  a  tussle  with  the  North  R  Club. 

*'  They  have  given  me  a  very  civil  invitation.  They  are  the 
sort  of  men,  after  all,  whom  it  pays  to  get  hold  of,  if  one  can. 
Among  their  fellows  they  are  the  men  who  think.  One  longs 
to  help  them  to  think  to  a  little  more  purpose." 

''What  have  you  to  give  them,  Robert?"  asked  Catherme, 
after  a  pause,  her  eyes  bent  on  the  child's  stockings  she  was 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


556 


knitting.  Her  heart  was  full  enough  already,  poor  soul.  Oh, 
the  bitterness  of  this  Passion  week !  He  had  been  at  her  side 
often  in  church,  but  through  all  his  tender  silence  and  con- 
sideration she  had  divined  the  constant  struggle  in  him  between 
love  and  intellectual  honesty,  and  it  had  filled  her  with  a  dumb 
irritation  and  misery  indescribable.  Do  what  she  would, 
wrestle  with  herself  as  she  would,  there  was  constantly  emerg- 
ing in  her  now  a  note  of  anger,  not  with  Robert,  but,  as  it 
were,  with  those  malign  forces  of  which  he  was  the  prey. 

'^What  have  I  to  give  them?"  he  repeated,  sadly.  ^' Very 
little,  Catherine,  as  it  seems  to  me  to-night.  But  come  and 
see." 

His  tone  had  a  melancholy  which  went  to  her  heart.  In 
reality  he  was  in  that  state  of  depression  which  often  precedes 
a  great  effort.   But  she  was  startled  by  his  suggestion. 

''Come  with  you,  Robert?  To  the  meeting  of  a  secularist 
club?" 

Why  not?  I  shall  be  there  to  protest  against  outrage  to 
what  hoth  you  and  I  hold  dear.  And  the  men  are  decent  fel- 
lows.  There  will  be  no  disturbance." 

''What  are  you  going  to  do?"  she  asked,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  I  have  been  trying  to  think  it  out,"  he  said,  with  difficulty. 
"  I  want  dimply,  if  I  can,  to  transfer  to  their  minds  that 
image  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth  which  thought,  and  love,  and  read- 
ing have  left  upon  my  own.  I  want  to  make  them  realize  for 
themselves  the  historical  character,  so  far  as  it  can  be  realized 
—to  make  them  see  for  themselves  the  real  figure,  as  it  went 
in  and  out  among  men— so  far  as  our  eyes  can  now  discern  it" 

The  words  came  quicker  toward  the  end,  while  the  voice 
sunk— took  the  vibrating,  characteristic  note  the  wife  knew  so 
well. 

"How  can  that  help  them?"  she  said,  abruptly.  "Your 
historical  Christ,  Robert,  will  never  win  souls.  If  he  was  God 
every  word  you  speak  will  insult  him.  If  he  was  man  he  was 
not  a  good  man.'" 

"  Come  and  see,"  was  aU  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand  to 
her.  It  was  in  some  sort  a  renewal  of  the  scene  at  Les  Avants, 
the  inevitable  renewal  of  an  offer  he  felt  bound  to  make  and 
she  felt  bound  to  resist. 

She  let  "her  knitting  fall  and  placed  her  hand  in  his.  The 
baby  on  the  rug  was  alternately  caressing  and  scourging  a 
WOoTiy  baa-lamb,  which  was  the  fetish  of  her  childish  worshir 


556 


ROBERT  ELSMEREi 


Her  broken  incessant  baby-talk,  and  the  ringing  kisses  with 
which  she  atoned  to  the  baa-lamb  for  each  successive  outrage, 
made  a  running  accompaniment  to  the  moved  under-tones  of 
the  parents. 

"Don't  ask  me,  Bobert;  don't  ask  me!  Do  you  want  me 
to  come  and  sit  thinking  of  last  year's  Easter-eve?" 

"Heaven  knows  I  was  miserable  enough  last  Easter-eve," 
he  said,  slowly. 

"And  now,"  she  exclaimed,  looking  at  him  with  a  sudden 
agitation  of  every  feature,  "  now  you  are  not  miserable !  You 
are  quite  confident  and  sure?  You  are  going  to  devote  your 
life  to  attacking  the  few  remnants  of  faith  that  still  remain  in 
the  world?" 

Never  in  her  married  life  had  she  spoken  to  him  with  this 
accent  of  bitterness  and  hostility.  He  started  and  withdrew 
his  hand,  and  there  was  a  silence. 

"  I  held  once  a  wife  in  my  arms,"  he  said  presently,  with  a 
voice  hardly  audible,  "who  said  to  me  that  she  would  never 
persecute  her  husband.  But  what  is  persecution  if  it  is  not 
the  determination  not  to  understand?" 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  "I  could  not  under- 
stand," she  said,  somberly. 

"  And  rather  than  try,"  he  insisted,  "  you  will  go  on  believ- 
ing that  I  am  a  man  without  faith,  seeking  only  to  destroy." 

"I  know  you  think  you  have  faith,"  she  answered,  "but 
how  can  it  seem  faith  to  me?  *  He  that  will  not  confess  Me 
before  men,  him  will  I  also  deny  before  My  Father  which  is  in 
heaven.'  Your  belief  seems  to  me  more  dangerous  than  these 
horrible  things  which  shock  you.  For  you  can  make  it  at- 
tractive, you  can  make  it  loved,  as  you  once  made  the  faith  of 
Christ  loved." 

He  was  silent.  She  raised  her  face  presently,  whereon  were 
the  traces  of  some  of  those  quiet,  difficult  tears  which  were 
characteristic  of  her,  and  went  softly  out  of  the  room. 

He  stood  awhile  leaning  against  the  mantel-piece,  deaf  to 
little  Mary's  clamor,  and  to  her  occasional  clutches  at  his 
knees,  as  she  tried  to  raise  herself  on  her  tiny  tottering  feet. 
A  sense  as  though  of  some  fresh  disaster  was  upon  him.  His 
heart  was  sinking,  sinking  within  him.  And  yet  none  knew 
better  than  he  that  there  was  nothing  fresh.  It  was  merely 
that  the  scene  had  recalled  to  him  anew  some  of  those  un« 


KOBERT  ELSMERB. 


657 


I  palatable  truths  which  the  optimist  is  always  much  too  ready 
to  forget. 

Heredity,  the  molding  force  of  circumstance,  the  iron  hold 
of  the  past  upon  the  present  ~a  man  like  Elsmere  realizes  the 
,  working  of  these  things  in  other  men's  lives  with  a  singular 
r  subtlety  and  clearness,  and  is  forever  overlooking  them,  run- 
\  I  ning  his  head  against  them,  in  his  o wn . 

i  He  turned  and  laid  his  arms  on  the  chimney-piece,  burying 
!  his  head  on  them.  Suddenly  he  felt  a  touch  on  his  knee,  and, 
I  looking  down,  saw  Mary  peering  up,  her  masses  of  dark  hair 
I  streaming  back  from  the  straining  little  face,  the  grave  open 
I  mouth  and  alarmed  eyes. 

I    "Fader,  tiss!  fader,  tiss!"  she  said,  imperatively. 

He  lifted  her  up  ai\d  covered  the  little  brown  cheeks  with 
!  kisses.   But  the  touch  of  the  child  only  woke  in  him  a  fresh 
I  dread— the  like  of  something  he  had  often  divined  of  late  in 
I  Catherine.    Was  she  actually  afraid  now  that  he  might  feel 
!  himself  bound  in  future  to  take  her  child  spiritually  from  her? 
The  suspicion  of  such  a  fear  in  her  woke  in  him  a  fresh  anguish ; 
it  seemed  a  measure  of  the  distance  they  had  traveled  from 
I  that  old  perfect  unity. 

''She  thinks  I  could  even  become  in  time  her  tyrant  and 
torturer,"  he  said  to  himself ,  with  measureless  pain,  "and  who 
I  knows— who  can  answer  for  himself?   Oh,  the  puzzle  of  hving !" 

1^  When  she  came  back  into  the  room,  pale  and  quiet,  Catherine 
said  nothing,  and  Eobert.went  to  his  letters.  But  after  awhilft 
she  opened  his  study  door. 
"Robert,  will  you  tell  me  what  your  stories  are  to  be  next 
week,  and  let  me  put  out  the  pictures?" 
[  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  made  any  such  offer.  He 
sprung  up  with  a  flash  in  his  gray  eyes,  and  brought  her  a  slip 
of  paper  with  a  hst.  She  took  it  without  looking  at  him.  But 
he  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  for  a  moment  in  that  embrace 
the  soreness  of  both  hearts  passed  away. 

But  if  Catherine  would  not  go,  Elsmere  was  not  left  on  this 
critical  occasion  without  auditors  from  his  own  immediate 
circle.   On  the  evening  of  Good  Friday  Flaxman  had  found 
his  way  to  Bedford  Square,  and,  as  Catherine  was  out,  was 
*   shown  into  Elsmere's  study. 

"  I  have  come,"  he  announced,  "to  try  and  persuade  you  and 
Mrs.  Elsmere  to  go  down  with  me  to  Q-ree.nlaws  to-morrow. 


558 


EGBERT  ELSMERB. 


My  Easter  party  has  come  to  grief,  and  it  would  be  a  real 
charity  on  your  part  to  come  and  resuscitate  it.  Do!  You 
look  abominably  fagged,  and  as  if  some  country  would  do  you 
good." 

But  I  thought — "  began  Eobert,  taken  aback. 
You  thought,"  repeated  Flaxman,  coolly,  ''that  your  two 
sisters-in-law  were  going  down  there  with  Lady  Helen,  to  meet 
some  musical  folk.  Well,  they  are  not  coming.  Miss  Leybum 
thinks  your  mother-in-law  not  very  well  to-day,  and  doesn't 
Uke  to  come.  And  your  younger  sister  prefers  also  to  stay  in 
town.  Helen  is  much  disappointed,  so  am  I.  But — "  And 
he  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

Eobert  found  it  difficult  to  \make  a  suitable  remark.  His 
sisters-in-law  were  certainly  inscrutable  young  women.  This 
Easter  party  at  Greenlaws,  Mr.  Flaxman's  country  house,  had 
been  planned,  he  knew,  for  weeks.  And  certainly  nothing 
could  be  very  wrong  with  Mrs.  Leybum,  or  Catherine  would 
have  been  warned. 

^'  I  am  afraid  your  plans  must  be  greatly  put  out,"  he  said, 
with  some  embarrassment. 

*'0f  course  they  are,"  replied  Flaxman,  with  a  dry  smile. 
He  stood  opposite  Elsmere,  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

Will  you  have  a  confidence?"  the  bright  eyes  seemed  to  say. 

I  am  quite  ready.    Claim  it  if  you  hke." 

But  Elsmere  had  no  intention  of  claiming  it.  The  position  of 
al>  Rose's  kindred,  indeed,  at  the  present  moment  was  not  easy. 
None  of  them  had  the  least  knowledge  of  Rose's  mind.  Had 
she  forgotten  Langham?  Had  she  lost  her  heart  afresh  to 
Flaxman?  No  one  knew.  Flaxman's  absorption  in  her  was 
clear  enough.  But  his  love-making,  if  it  was  such,  was  not  of 
an  ordinary  kind,  and  did  not  always  explain  itself.  And, 
moreover,  his  wealth  and  social  position  were  elements  in  the 
situation  calculated  to  make  people  like  the  Elsmeres  particular- 
ly diffident  and  discreet.  Impossible  for  them,  much  as  they 
liked  him,  to  make  any  of  the  advances. 

No,  Robert  wanted  no  confidences.  He  was  not  prepared  to 
tQX6  the  i^esponsibiUty  of  them.  So,  letting  Rose  alone,  he 
took  up  his  vi^^or's  invitation  to  themselves,  and  explained 
the  engagement  fOT  Easter-eve,  which  tied  them  to  London. 

Whew!"  said  Hugh  Flaxm&iSa  *'but  that  will  be  a  shindy 
woi  th  seeing.   I  must  come  !^ 

N;?nsense !"  said  Robert,  smiling.    **Go  down  to  Green- 


EGBERT  ELSMERE. 


559 


laws,  and  go  to  church.  That  will  be  much  more  in  your 
line." 

"As  for  church,"  said  Flaxman,  meditatively,  ^^if  I  put  off 
my  party  altogether,  and  stay  in  town,  there  will  be  this  fur- 
ther advantage,  that,  after  hearing  you  on  Saturday  night,  I 
can,  with  a  blameless  impartiality,  spend  the  following  day  in 
St.  Andrew's,  Well  Street.  Yes!  I  telegraph  to  Helen— she 
knows  my  ways — and  I  come  down  to  protect  you  against  an 
atheistical  mob  to  morrow  night!" 

Kobert  tried  to  dissuade  him.  He  did  not  want  Flaxman. 
Flaxman's  Epicureanism,  the  easy  tolerance  with  which,  now 
that  the  effervescence  of  his  youth  had  subsided,  the  man  har- 
bored and  dallied  with  a  dozen  contradictory  beliefs,  were  at 
times  peculiarly  antipathetic  to  Elsmere.  They  were  so  now, 
just  as  heart  and  soul  were  nerved  to  an  effort  which  could  not 
be  made  at  all  without  the  nobler  sort  of  self-confidence. 

But  Flaxman  was  determined. 

"  No,"  he  said;  "  this  one  day  we'll  give— to  heresy.  Don't 
look  so  forbidding !  In  the  first  place,  you  won't  see  me ;  in 
the  next,  if  you  did,  you  would  feel  me  as  wax  in  your  hands. 
I  am  Hke  the  man  in  Sophocles — always  the  possession  of  the 
last  speaker!  One  day  I  am  all  for  the  Church.  A  certain 
number  of  chances  in  the  hundred  there  still  are,  you  will  ad- 
mit, that  she  is  in  the  right  of  it.  And  if  so,  why  should  I  cut 
myself  off  from  a  whole  host  of  beautiful  things  not  to  be  got 
outside  her?  But  the  next  daj—vive  Elsmere  and  the  Revo- 
lution! If  only  Elsmere  could  persuade  me  intellectually  I 
But  I  never  yet  came  across  a  religious  novelty  that  seemed  to 
me  to  have  a  leg  of  logic  to  stand  on !" 

He  laid  his  hand  on  Robert's  shoulder,  his  eyes  twinkhng 
with  a  sudden  energy.  Robert  made  no  answer.  He  stood 
erect,  frowning  a  little,  his  hands  thrust  far  into  the  pockets  of 
his  light  gray  coat.  He  was  in  no  mood  to  disclose  himself  to 
Flaxman.  The  inner  vision  was  fixed  with  extraordinary  in- 
tensity on  quite  another  sort  of  antagonist,  with  whom  the 
mind  was  continuously  grappling. 

'*Ah,  well— till  to-morrow!"  said  Flaxman,  with  a  smile, 
shook  hands,  and  went. 

Outside  he  hailed  a  cab  and  drove  off  to  Lady  Charlotte's. 

He  found  his  aunt  and  Mr.  Wynnstay  in  the  drawing-room 
-alone,  one  on  either  side  of  the  fire.  Lady  Charlotte  was  read- 
ing the  latest  poUtical  biography  with  an  apparent  profundity 


560 


ROBERT  ET^MERE. 


of  attention;  Mr.  Wynnstay  was  lounging  and  caressing  the 
cat.  But  both  his  aunt's  absorption  and  Mr.  Wynnstay's  non- 
chalance seemed  to  Flaxman  overdone.  He  suspected  a  domes- 
tic breeze. 

Lady  Charlotte  made  him  effusively  welcome.  He  had 
come  to  propose  that  she  should  accompany  him  the  following 
evening  to  hear  Elsmere  lecture. 

''I  advise  you  to  come,"  he  said.  Elsmere  will  deliver 
his  soul,  and  the  amoimt  of  soul  he  has  to  deliver  in  these  dull, 
days  is  astounding.  A  dowdy  dress  and  a  veil,  of  course.  I 
will  go  down  beforehand  and  see  some  one  on  the  spot,  in  case 
there  should  be  difficulties  about  getting  in.  Perhaps  Miss 
Leybum,  too,  might  like  to  hear  her  brother-in-law?" 

''Really,  Hugh,"  cried  Lady  Charlotte,  impatiently,  ''I 
think  you  might  take  your  snubbing  with  dignity.  Her  re- 
fusal this  morning  to  go  to  G-reenlaws  was  brusqueness  itself. 
To  my  mind  that  young  person  gives  herself  airs !"  And  the 
Duke  of  Sedbergh's  sister  drew  herself  up  with  a  rustle  of  all 
her  ample  frame. 

''Yes,  I  was  snubbed,"  said  Flaxman,  unperturbed;  ''that, 
iiowever,  is  no  reason  why  she  shouldn't  find  it  attractive  to 
go  to-morrow  night." 

"And  you  will  let  her  see  that,  just  because  you  couldn't 
get  hold  of  her,  you  have  given  up  your  Easter  party  and  left 
your  sister  in  the  lurch?" 

"  I  never  had  excessive  notions  of  dignity,"  he  replied,  com- 
posedly. "You  may  make  up  any  story  you  please.  The 
real  fact  is  that  I  want  to  hear  Elsmere." 

"You  had  better  go,  my  dear!"  said  her  husband,  sardonic- 
ally. ''I  can  not  imagine  anything  more  piquant  than  an 
atheistic  slum  on  Easter-ev(i>." 

"Nor  can  I!"  she  replied,  her  combativeness  rousing  at 
once.  "Much  obliged  to  you,  Hugh.  I  will  borrow  my  house- 
keeper's dress,  and  be  ready  to  leave  here  at  half  past  seven,' 

Nothing  more  was  said  of  Rose,  but  Flaxman  knew  that  she 
would  be  asked,  and  let  it  alone. 

"Will  his  wife  be  there?"  asked  Lady  Charlotte. 

"Who?  Elsmere's?  My  dear  aunt,  when  you  happen  to 
be  the  orthodox  wife  of  a  rising  heretic,  your  husband's  opin- 
ions are  not  exactly  the  spectacular  performance  they  are  to 
you  and  me.    I  should  think  it  most  unlikely." 

"  Oh,  she  persecutes  him,  does  she?" 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


661 


"  She  wouldn't  be  a  woman  if  she  didn't  I"  observed  Mr. 
Wynnstay,  sotto  voce^  The  small,  dark  man  was  lost  in  a 
great  arm-chair,  his  delicate  painter's  hands  playing  with  the 
fur  of  a  huge  Persian  cat.  Lady  Charlotte  threw  him  an  eagle 
glance,  and  he  subsided— for  the  moment. 

Flaxman,  however,  was  perfectly  right.  There  had  been  a 
breeze.  It  had  been  just  announced  to  the  master  of  the  house 
by  his  spouse  that  certain  Sociahstic  celebrities— who  might 
any  day  be  expected  to  make  acquaintance  with  the  police — 
were  coming  to  dine  at  his  table,  to  finger  his  spoons  a.nd  mix 
their  diatribes  with  his  champagne,  on  the  following  Tuesday. 
Overt  rebellion  had  never  served  him  yet,  and  he  knew  per- 
fectly well  that  when  it  came  to  the  point  he  should  smile 
more  or  less  affahly  upon  these  gentry,  as  he  had  smiled  upon 
others  of  the  same  sort  before.  But  it  had  not  yet  come  to  the 
point,  and  his  intermediate  state  was  explosive  in  the  extreme. 

Mr.  Flaxman  dexterously  continued  the  subject  of  the  Els- 
meres.  Dropping  his  bantering  tone  he  delivered  himself  of  a 
very  delicate  critical  analysis  of  Catherine  Elsmere's  tempera- 
ment and  position,  as  in  the  course  of  several  months  his  in- 
timacy with  her  husband  had  revealed  them  to  him.  He  did 
it  v/ell,  with  acuteness  and  philosophical  relish.  The  situation 
presented  itself  to  him  as  an  extremely  refined  and  yet  tragic 
phase  of  the  religious  difficulty,  and  it  gave  him  intellectual 
pleasure  to  draw  it  out  in  words. 

Lady  Charlotte  sat  listening,  enjoying  her  nephew's  crisp 
phrases,  but  also  gradually  gaining  a  perception  of  the  human 
reality  behind  this  word  play  of  Hugh's.  That  good  heart " 
of  hers  was  touched;  the  large  imperious  face  began  to  frown. 

^'Dear  me!"  she  said,  with  a  little  sigh.  ''Don't  go  on, 
Hugh.  I  suppose  it's  because  we  all  of  us  believe  so  little  that 
the  poor  thing's  point  of  view  seems  to  one  so  unreal.  All  the 
same,  however,"  she  added,  regaining  her  usual  role  of  magis- 
terial common  sense,  ''a  woman,  in  my  opinion,  ought  to  go 
with  her  husband  in  religious  matters." 

Provided,  of  course,  she  sets  him  at  naught  in  all  others," 
put  in  Mr.  Wynnstay,  rising  and  daintily  depositing  the  cat 
**Many  men,  however,  my  dear,  might  be  wHUng  to  compro- 
mise it  differently.  Granted  a  certain  modicum  of  worldly 
conformity,  they  would  not  be  at  all  indisposed  to  a  conscience 
clause." 

He  lounged  out  of  the  room^  while  Lady  Charlotte  shrugged 


562 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


her  shoulders  with  a  look  at  her  nephew  in  which  there  was 
an  irrepressible  twinkle.  Mr.  Flaxman  neither  heard  nor  saw. 
Life  would  have  ceased  to  be  worth  having  long  ago  had  he 
ever  taken  sides  in  the  smallest  degree  in  this  menage, 

Flaxman  walked  home  again,  not  particularly  satisfied  with 
himself  and  his  maneuvers.   Very  hkely  it  was  quite  unwise  of 
him  to  have  devised  another  meeting  between  himself  and  Rose  ^ 
Leyburn  so  soon.      Certainly  she  had  snubbed  him— there 
could  be  no  doubt  of  that.   Nor  was  he  in  much  perplexity  as 
to  the  reason.    He  had  been  forgetting  himself,  forgetting  hi?  | 
role  and  the  whole  lie  of  the  situation,  and  if  a  man  will  be  ai 
idiot  he  must  suffer  for  it.   He  had  distinctly  been  put  back  a  i 
move. 

The  facts  were  very  simple.   It  was  now  nearly  three  months  ^ 
since  Langham's  disappearance.   During  that  time  Rose  Ley-  I 
burn  had  been,  to  Flaxman's  mind,  enchantingly  dependent  on  ; 
him.   He  had  played  his  part  so  well,  and  the  beautiful  high-  . 
spirited  child  had  suited  herself  so  naively  to  his  acting !   Evi-  ! 
dently  she  had  said  to  hei-self  that  his  age,  his  former  marriage, 
his  relation  to  Lady  Helen,  his  constant  kindness  to  her  and  | 
her  sister,  made  it  natural  that  she  should  trust  him,  make  him 
her  friend,  and  allow  him  an  intimacy  she  allowed  to  no  other 
male  friend.    And  when  once  the  situation  had  been  so  defined 
in  her  mind,  how  the  girl's  true  self  had  come  outl-ywhat  de- 
lightful moments  that  intimacy  had  contained  for  him.  | 

He  remembered  how  on  one  occasion  he  had  been  reading 
some  Browning  to  her  and  Helen,  in  Helen's  Crowded,  belit- 
tered  drawing-room,  which  seemed  all  piano  and  photographs j 
and  lilies  of  the  valley.   He  never  could  exactly  trace  the  con-  ■ 
nection  between  the  passage  he  had  been  reading  and  what  hap- 
pened.   Probably  it  was  merely  Browning's  poignant,  passion, 
ate  note  that  had  affected  her.   In  spite  of  all  her  proud,  bright  | 
reserve,  both  he  and  Helen  often  felt  through  these  weeks  that  > 
just  below  this  surface  there  was  a  heart  which  quivered  at  the 
least  touch.   He  finished  the  lines  and  laid  down  the  book. 
Lady  Helen  heard  her  three-year-old  boy  crying  upstairs,  and 
ran  up  to  see  what  was  the  matter.   He  and  Rose  were  left 
alone  in  the  scented,  fire-lighted  room.    And  a  jet  of  flame 
suddenly  showed  him  the  girl's  face  turned  away,  convulsed  * 
with  a  momentary  struggle  for  self-control.   She  raised  a  hand  i 
an  instant  to  her  eyes,  not  dreaming  evidently  that  she  could  J 
be  seen  in  the  dimness;  and  her  gloves  dropped  from  her  lap. 


KOBERf  ELSMEEB. 


563 


He  moved  forward,  stooped  on  one  knee,  and  as  she  held 
out  her  hand  for  the  gloves,  he  kissed  the  hand  very  gently, 
detaining  it  afterward  as  a  brother  might.  There  was  not  a 
thought  of  himself  in  his  mind.  Simply  he  could  not  bear  that 
so  bright  a  creature  should  ever  be  sorry.  It  seemed  to  him 
intolerable,  against  the  nature  of  things.  If  he  could  have  pro- 
cured for  her  at  that  moment  a  coerced  and  transformed  Lang- 
ham,  a  Langham  fitted  to  make  her  happy,  he  could  almost 
have  done  it ;  and,  short  of  such  radical  consolation,  the  very 
least  he  could  do  was  to  go  on  his  knee  to  her,  and  comfort  her 
in  tender  brotherly  fashion. 

She  did  not  say  anything;  she  let  her  hand  stay  a  moment, 
and  then  she  got  up,  put  on  her  veil,  left  a  quiet  message  for 
Lady  Helen,  and  departed.  But  as  he  put  her  into  a  hansom 
her  whole  manner  to  him  was  full  of  a  shy,  shrinking  sweet- 
ness. And  when  Rose  was  shy  and  shrinking  she  was  adorable. 

Well,  and  now  he  had  never  again  gone  nearly  so  far  as  to 
kiss  her  hand,  and  yet  because  of  an  indiscreet  moment  every- 
thing was  changed  between  them;  she  had  turned  resentful, 
stand-off,  nay,  as  nearly  rude  as  a  girl  under  the  restraints  of 
modern  manners  can  manage  to  be.  He  almost  laughed  as  he 
recalled  Helen's  report  of  her  interview  with  Rose  that  morn- 
ing, in  which  she  had  tried  to  persuade  a  young  person  out- 
rageously on  her  dignity  to  keep  an  engagement  she  had  her- 
self spontaneously  made. 

*'I  am  very  sorry,  Lady  Helen,"  Rose  had  said,  her  slim 
figure  drawn  up  so  stiffly  that  the  small  Lady  Helen  felt  her- 
self totally  effaced  beside  her.  *^But  I  had  rather  not  leave 
London  this  week.  I  think  I  will  stay  with  mamma  and 
Agnes." 

And  nothing  Lady  Helen  could  say  moved  her  or  modified 
her  formula  or  refusal. 

''What  have  you  been  doing,  Hugh  ?"  his  sister  asked  him, 
half  dismayed,  half  provoked. 

Flaxman  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  vowed  he  had  been  do- 
ing nothing.  But,  in  truth,  he  knew  very  well  that  the  day 
before  he  had  overstepped  the  line.  There  had  been  a  little 
scene  between  them,  a  quick  passage  of  speech,  a  rash  look  and 
gesture  on  his  part,  which  had  been  quite  unpremeditated,  but 
which  had  nevertheless  transformed  their  relation.  Rose  had 
flushed  up,  had  said  a  few  incoherent  words,  which  he  had  un- 
derstood to  be  words  of  reproach,  had  left  Lady  Helen's  as 


564 


EOBEET  ELSMERE. 


quickly  as  possible,  and  next  morning  his  Greenlaws  party 
fallen  through. 

Check,  certainly,"  said  Flaxman  to  himself,  ruefully, 
he  pondered  these  circumstances— "not  mate,  I  hope,  if  o 
can  but  find  out  how  not  to  be  a  fool  in  future."  ^ 
And  over  his  solitary  fire  he  meditated  far  into  the  night.  H 
Next  day,  at  half  past  seven  in  the  evening,  he  entered  LadjH 
Charlotte's  drawing-room,  gayer,  brisker,  more  alert  than  ever  ■ 
Eose  started  visibly  at  the  sight  of  him,  and  shot  a  quidiB 
glance  at  the  unblushing  Lady  Charlotte.  H 
I  thought  you  were  at  Greenlaws,"  she  could  not  help  say» 
ing  to  him,  as  she  coldly  offered  him  her  hand.    Why  bacH 
Lady  Charlotte  never  told  her  he  was  to  escort  them?  HeiB 
iiTitation  rose  anew.  Ml 

What  can  one  do,"  he  said,  lightly,  '*if  Elsmere  will 
such  a  performance  for  Easter-eve  ?  My  party  was  at  its  laaH 
gasp  too;  it  only  wanted  a  telegram  to  Helen  to  give  it  its  cou^M 
de  grdce^  H 
Kose  flushed  up,  but  he  turned  on  his  heel  at  once,  and  beH 
gan  to  banter  his  aunt  on  the  housekeeper's  bonnet  and  veiliiB 
which  she  had  a  httle  too  obviously  disguised  herself. 

And  certainly,  in  the  drive  to  the  East  End,  Rose  had  n< 
reason  to  complain  of  importunity  on  his  part.  Most  of  th« 
way  he  was  deep  in  talk  with  Lady  Charlotte  as  to  a  certaii 
loan  exhibition  in  the  East  End,  to  which  he  and  a  good  manj 
of  bis  friends  were  sending  pictures;  apparently  his  time  am 
thoughts  were  entirely  occupied  with  it.  Rose,  leaning  bad 
silent  in  her  comer,  was  presently  seized  with  a  httle  shock  q 
surprise  that  there  should  be  so  many  interests  and  relations  ia 
his  life  of  which  she  knew  nothing.  He  was  talking  now  d 
the  man  of  possessions  aud  influence.  She  saw  a  ghmpse  6 
him  as  he  was  in  his  public  aspect,  and  the  kindness,  the  disifi 
terestedness,  the  quiet  sense,  and  the  humor  of  his  talk  inser 
sibly  affected  her  as  she  sat  listenmg.  The  mental  image  c 
hini  which  had  been  dominant  in  her  mind  altered  a  littk 
Nay,  she  grew  a  httle  hot  over  it.  She  asked  herself  scoit 
fully  whether  she  were  not  as  ready  as  any  bread-and-butte 
miss  of  her  acquaintance  to  imagine  every  man  she  knew  r 
love  with  her. 

Very  likely  he  had  meant  what  he  said  quite  differently,  am 
she— oh!  humiliation— had  flown  into  a  passion  v/ith  him  fo 
no  reasonable  cause.   Supposing  be  had  meant,  two  days  age 


EGBERT  BLSMBEE. 


665 


hat  if  they  were  to  go  on  being  friends  she  must  let  him  be  her 
over  too,  it  would  of  course  have  been  unpardonable.  How 
'  ould  she  let  any  one  talk  to  her  of  love  yet— especially  Mr. 
riaxman,  who  guessed,  as  she  was  quite  sure,  v/hat  had  hap- 
i)ened  to  her?   He  must  despise  her  to  have  imagined  it.  His 
outburst  had  filled  her  with  the  oddest  and  most  petulant  re- 
entment.    Were  all  men  self-seeking?  Did  all  men  think 
:  Ivomen  shallow  and  fickle?   Could  a  man  and  a  woman  never 
'  >e  honestly  and  simply  friends?  If  he  had  made  love  to  her, 
ie  could  not  possibly— and  there  was  the  sting  of  it— feel  to- 
ward her  maiden  dignity  that  romantic  respect  which  she  her- 
elf  cherished  toward  it.    For  it  was  incredible  that  any  deli- 
ate  minded  girl  should  go  through  such  a  crisis  as  she  had 
:one  through,  and  then  fall  caLnly  into  another  lover's  arms  a 
ew  weeks  later,  as  though  notlung  had  happened. 
How  we  all  attitudinize  to  ourselves !   The  whole  of  life  often 
eems  one  long  dramatic  performance,  in  which  one  half  of  us 
3  forever  posing  to  the  other  half. 

But  had  he  really  made  love  to  her?— had  he  meant  what  she 
lad  assumed  him  to  mean?  The  girl  lost  herself  in  a  torment 
f  memory  and  conjecture,  and  meanwhile  Mr.  Flaxman  sat 
ipposite,  talking  away,  and  looking  certainly  as  little  love-sick 
i  s  any  man  can  well  look.  As  the  lamps  flashed  into  the  car- 
iage  her  attention  was  often  caught  by  his  profile  and  finely 
balanced  head,  by  the  hand  lying  on  his  knees,  or  the  little  ges- 
Lires,  full  of  life  and  freedom,  with  which  he  met  some  raid  of 
uady  Charlotte's  on  his  opinions,  or  opened  a  corresponding 
ne  on  hers.  There  was  certainly  power  in  the  njan,  a  bright, 
luman  sort  of  power,  which  inevitably  attracted  her.  And 
hat  he  was  good  too  she  had  special  grounds  for  knowing. 
But  what  an  aristocrat  he  was  after  all !   What  an  overpros- 

:  )erous,  exclusive  set  he  belonged  to!  She  lashed  herself  into 
i-nger  as  the  other  two  chatted  and  sparred,  with  all  these  names 
)f  wealthy  cousins  and  relations,  with  their  parks  and  their 
>edigrees  and  their  pictures !  The  aunt  and  nephew  were  de- 
)atinghow  they  could  best  bleed  the  family,  in  its  various 
)ranches,  of  the  art  treasures  belonging  to  it  for  the  benefit  of 

.  lie  East-End ers;  therefore  the  names  were  inevitable.  But 
i^ose  curled  her  delicate  lip  over  them.    And  was  it  the  best 

;  )reeding,  she  wondered,  to  lea ve  a  third  person  so  ostentalious- 
J  outside  the  conversation? 


ggg  EOBBBT  ELSMEEE. 

"Miss  Leybum,  why  are  you  coughing?"  said  Lady  Char 

lotte,  suddenly.    . 

"  There  is  a  great  draught,"  said  Eose,  shivenng  a  httle. 
"  So  there  is!"  cried  Lady  Charlotte.    "Why,  we  have  got 
both  the  windows  open.   Hugh,  draw  up  Miss  Leybum's." 
He  moved  over  to  her  and  drew  it  up. 
"  I  thought  you  liked  a  tornado,"  he  said  to  her,  smihng. 
"  Will  you  have  a  shawl?— there  is  one  behmd  me." 

"  No,  thank  you,"  she  repUed,  rather  stiffly,  and  he  was  silent 
—retaining  his  place  opposite  to  her,  however. 

"  Have  we  reached  Mr.  Elsmere's  part  of  the  world  yet? 
asked  Lady  Charlotte,  looking  out. 

"  Yes,  we  are  not  far  off— the  river  is  to  our  right.  We  shaU 
pass  St.'wilfrid's  soon."  . 

The  coachman  turned  into  a  street  where  an  open-au-  market 
was  going  on.  The  road-way  and  pavements  were  swarming; 
the  carriage  could  barely  pick  its  way  through  the  masses  of 
human  beings.  Flaming  gas-jets  threw  it  aU  into  strong  satamc 
Ught  and  shade.  At  the  corner  of  a  dingy  aUey  Eose  could  see 
a  fight  going  on;  the  begrimed  ragged  children,  regardless  of 
the  April  rain,  swooped  backward  and  forward  under  the  very; 
hoofs  of  the  horses,  or  flattened  their  noses  against  the  win- 
dows whenever  the  horses  were  forced  into  a  walk. 

The  young  girl-figure  in  gray,  with  the  gray  feathered  hat, 
seemed  specially  to  excite  then-  notice.  The  glare  of  the  street 
brought  out  the  lines  of  the  face,  the  gold  of  the  hau-.  The 
Arabs  outside  made  loutishly  flattering  remarks  once  or  twice,i 
and  Eose,  coloring,  drew  back  as  far  as  she  could  into  the  car- 
riage. Mr.  Flaxman  seemed  not  to  hear;  his  aunt,  with  that 
obtrusive  thirst  for  information  which  is  so  fashionable  now 
among  aU  women  of  position,  was  cross-questioning  him  as  tc 
the  trades  and  population  of  the  district,  and  he  was  dryly  r& 
spending.  In  reality  his  mind  was  full  of  a  whirl  of  feelmg, 
of  a  wild  longing  to  break  down  a  futile  barrier  and  trample  oi 
a  baffling  resistance,  to  take  that  beautiful  tameless  creature  ii 
strong,  coercing  arms,  scold  her,  crush  her,  love  her!  Whj 
does  she  make  happiness  so  difficult?  What  right  has  she  U 
hold  devotion  so  cheap?  He  too  grows  angry.  "  She  was  «« 
in  love  with  that  spectral  creature,"  the  inner  self  declares  witt 
energy— ' '  I  will  vow  she  never  was.  But  she  is  like  all  the  res 
—a  slave  to  the  merest  forms  and  trappings  of  sentiment.  Be 


KOBEKT  ELSMEEE. 


567 


cause  he  ought  to  have  loved  her,  and  didn't,  my  love  is  to  be 
an  offense  to  her!   Monstrous— unjust !" 

Suddenly  they  sped  past  St.  Wilfrid's,  resplendent  with 
lights,  the  jeweled  windows  of  the  choir  rising  above  the  squalid 
walls  and  roofs  into  the  rainy  darkness,  as  the  mystical  chapel 
of  the  Graal,  with  its  ^'torches  glimmering  fair,"  flashed  out 
of  the  mountain  storm  and  solitude  on  to  Galahad's  seeking 
eyes. 

Eose  bent  forward  involuntarily.  *'What  angel  singing!" 
ishe  said,  dropping  the  window  again  to  listen  to  the  retreating 
sounds,  her  artist's  eye  kindling.  Did  you  hear  it?  It  was 
the  last  chorus  in  the  St.  Matthew  Passion  music." 
-  did  not  distinguish  it,"  he  said— but  their  music  is 
famous." 

His  tone  was  distant ;  their  was  no  friendliness  in  it.  It  would 
have  been  pleasant  to  her  if  he  would  have  taken  up  her  little 
remark  and  let  by-gones  be  by-gones.  But  he  showed  no  readi- 
ness to  do  so.  The  subject  dropped,  ancT  presently  he  moved 
back  to  his  former  seat,  and  Lady  Charlotte  and  he  resumed 
their  talk.  Eose  could  not  but  see  that  his  manner  toward  her 
was  much  changed.  She  herself  had  compelled  it,  but  all  the 
same  she  saw  him  leave  her  with  a  capricious  little  pang  of  re- 
^et,  and  afterward  the  drive  seemed  to  her  more  tedious  and 
the  dismal  streets  more  dismal  than  before. 

She  tried  to  forget  her  companions  altogether.    Oh!  what 
would  Eobert  have  to  say?  She  was  unhappy,  restless.   In  her 
trouble  lately  it  had  often  pleased  her  to  go  quite  alone  to 
strange  churches,  where  for  a  moment  the  burden  of  the  self 
had  seemed  lightened.   But  the  old  things  were  not  always 
congenial  to  her,  and  there  were  modern  fern) en ts  at  work  in 
I  her.   No  one  of  her  family,  unless  it  were  Agnes,  suspected 
I  what  was  going  on.   But  in  truth  the  rich  crude  nature  had 
!  been  touched  at  last,  as  Eobert's  had  been  long  ago  in  Mr. 
j  Grey's  lecture-room,  by  the  piercing  under- voices  of  things— 
j  the  moral  message  of  the  world.      What  will  he  have  to  say?" 
she  asked  herself  again,  feverishly,  and  as  she  looked  across  to 
Mr.  Flaxman  she  felt  a  childish  wish  to  be  friends  again  with 
i  him,  with  everybody.   Life  was  too  difiSlcult  as  it  was,  without 
I  quarrels  and  misunderstandings  to  make  it  worse. 


ROBERT  ELSMEEB, 


CHAPTER  XL.  ^Ikt 

A  LONG  street  of  warehouses— and  at  the  end  of  it  the  hoiSHI^ 

slackened. 

"  I  saw  the  president  of  the  club  yesterday,"  said  FlaxmanJ  ' 
looking  out.  He  is  an  old  friend  of  mine— a  most  intelligenl 
fanatic— met  him  on  a  Mansion  House  Fund  Committee  las  I 
winter.  He  promised  v/e  should  be  looked  after.  But  w  I 
shall  only  get  back  seats,  and  you'll  have  to  put  up  with  thl 
smoking.  They  don't  want  ladies,  and  we  shall  only  be  theri 
on  sufferance." 

The  carriage  stopped.  Mr.  Flaxman  guided  his  charges  witl 
»^ome  difficulty  through  the  crowd  about  the  steps,  who  Id 
spected  them  and  their  vehicle  with  a  frank  and  not  over 
friendly  curiosity.  At  the  door  they  found  a  man  who  had  beeii 
sent  to  look  for  them,  and  were  immediately  taken  possessioi| 
of.  He  ushered  them  into  the  back  of  a  large  bare  hall,  glaring 
ly  lighted,  lined  with  white  brick,  and  hung  at  intervals  witl 
political  portraits  and  a  few  cheap  engravings  of  famous  men 
Jesus  ot  Nazareth  taking  his  turn  with  Buddha,  Socrates 
Moses,  Shakespeare,  and  Paul  of  Tarsus. 

"  Can't  put  you  any  forrarder,  I'm  afraid,"  said  their  guidei 
with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  ''The  committee  don't  lib 
strangers  commg,  and  Mr.  Collett,  he  got  hauled  over  th 
coals  for  letting  you  m  this  evening." 

It  was  a  new  position  for  Lady  Charlotte  to  be  anywhere  oi 
sufferance.  However,  in  the  presence  of  three  hundred  smok 
mg  men,  who  might  all  of  them  be  poUtical  assassins  in  dis 
guise,  for  anything  she  knew,  she  accepted  her  fate  with  meek 
ness;  and  she  and  Rose  settled  .themselves  into  their  back  sea 
under  a  rough  sort  of  gaUery,  glad  of  their  veils,  and  nearb| 
blinded  with  smoke.  i 

The  haU  was  nearly  f uU,  and  Mr.  Flaxman  looked  curiously 
round  upon  its  occupants.  The  majority  of  them  were  clearly 
artisans — a  spare,  stooping,  sharp-featured  race.  Here  an( 
there  were  a  knot  of  stalwart  dock-laborers,  strongly  marke< 
out  in  physique  from  the  watch-makers  and  the  potters,  or  ai 
occasional  seaman  out  of  w  rk,  ship-steward,  boatswain,  o 
what  not,  generally  bronzed,  quick-eyed,  and  comely,  sav 
where  the  film  of  excess  had  already  deadened  color  and  63 
pression.  Almost  every  one  had  a  pot  of  beer  before  him,  stand 
ng  on  long  wooden  flaps  attached  to  the  benches.   The  rocii 


KOBEST  ELSMERE.  569 

wsls  full  of  noise,  coming  apparently  from  the  further  end, 
js^here  some  political  bravo  seemed  to  be  provoking  his  neigh- 
:)ors.  In  their  own  vicinity  the  men  scattered  about  were  for 
he  most  part  tugging  silently  at  their  pipes,  alternately  eying 
the  clock  and  the  new-comers. 

There  was  a  stir  of  feet  round  the  door. 
!     There  he  is,"  said  Mr.  Flaxman,  craning  round  to  see,  and 
flobert  entered. 

I  He  started  as  he  saw  them,  flashed  a  smile  to  Rose,  shook 
his  head  at  Mr.  Flaxman,  and  passed  up  the  room. 

''He  looks  pale  and  nervous,"  said  Lady  Ohariotte,  grimly, 
pouncing  at  once  on  the  unpromising  side  of  things.      If  be 
breaks  down,  are  you  prepared,  Hugh,  to  play  Elisha?" 
I  Flaxman  was  far  too  much  interested  in  the  beginnings  of 
bhe  performance  to  answer. 

Robert  was  standing  f orv/ard  on  the  platform,  the  chairman 
Df  the  meeting  at  his  side,  members  of  the  committee  sitting 
t)ehind  on  either  hand.  A  good  many  men  put  down  their 
pipeSj  and  the  hubbub  of  talk  ceased.  Others  smoked  on 
stolidly. 

i  The  chairman  introduced  the  lecturer.  The  subject  of  the 
address  would  be,  as  they  already  knew,  The  Claim  of  Jesus 
jiipon  Modern  Life."  It  was  not  very  likely,  he  imagined,  that 
Mr.  Elsmere's  opinions  would  square  wdth  those  dominant  in  the 
club;  but,  whether  or  no,  he  claimed  for  him,  as  for  every- 
ibody,  a  patient  hearing,  and  the  Englishman's  privilege  of  fair 
iplay. 

The  speaker,  a  cabinet  maker  dressed  in  a  decent  brown  suit, 
|spoke  with  fluency,  and  at  the  same  time  with  that  accent  of 
imoderation  and  savoir  faire  which  some  Englishmen  in  all 
classes  have  obviously  inherited  from  centuries  of  government 
by  discussion.  Lady  Charlotte,  whose  Liberalism  was  the  mere 
varnish  of  an  essentially  aristocratic  temper,  was  conscious  of  a 
certain  dismay  at  the  culture  ot  the  demoG-racy  as  the  man  sat 
idown.  Mr.  FlaxmaT.,  glancing  to  the  right,  saw  a  group  of 
Imen  standing,  and  among  them  a  slight,  sharp-featured  thread- 
I paper  of  a  man,  with  a  taller  companion,  whom  he  identified  as 
I  the  pair  he  had  noticed  od  the  night  of  the  story- telling.  The 
I  little  gas-fitter  was  clearly  all  nervous  fidget  and  expectation; 
i  the  other,  large  and  gaunt  in  figure,  with  a  square,  impassive 
i  face,  and  close  shut  lips  that  bad  a  perpetual  mocking  twist  in 


570 


EOBKRT  ELSMEEB. 


the  comers,  stood  beside  him  like  some  clumsy  modem  ver- 
sion, in  a  commoner  clay,  of  Goethe's    spirit  that  denies." 

Robert  came  forward,  with  a  roll  of  papers  in  his  hand. 

His  first  words  were  hardly  audible.  Rose  felt  her  color  ris- 
ing, Lady  Charlote  glanced  at  her  nephew,  the  standing 
group  of  men  cried  ''Speak  upl"  The  voice  in  the  distance 
rose  at  once,  braced  by  the  touch  of  difficulty,  and  what  it  said 
came  firmly  down  to  them. 

In  after  days  Flaxman  could  not  often  be  got  to  talk  of  the 
experience  of  this  evening.  When  he  did  he  would  generally 
say,  briefly,  that  as  an  intellectual  effort  he  had  never  been  in- 
clined to  rank  this  first  pubHc  utterance  very  high  among  Els- 
mere's  performances.  The  speaker's  own  emotion  had  stood 
somewhat  in  his  way.  A  man  argues  better,  perhaps,  when 
he  feels  less. 

*'Ihave  often  heard  him  put  his  case,  as  I  thought,  more 
cogently  in  conversation,"  Flaxman  would  say— though  only 
to  his  most  intimate  friends— ''but  what  I  never  saw  before  or 
since  was  such  an  effect  of  personality  as  he  produced  that  nigbt. 
From  that  moment,  at  any  rate,  I  loved  him,  and  I  understood 
his  secret !" 

Elsmere  began  with  a  few  words  of  courteous  thanks  to  the 
club  for  the  hearing  they  had  promised  him. 

Then  he  passed  on  to  the  occasion  of  his  address— the  vogue 
in  the  district  of  "certain  newspapers  which,  I  understand,  are 
specially  relished  and  patronized  by  your  association." 

And  he  laid  down  on  a  table  beside  him  the  copies  of  the 
"Freethinker"  and  of  "Faith  and  Fools"  which  he  had 
brought  with  him,  and  faced  his  audience  again,  his  hands  on 
his  sides. 

"Well!  I  am  not  here  to-night  to  attack  those  newspapers. 

I  want  to  reach  your  sympathies  if  I  can  in  another  way.  If 
there  is  anybody  here  who  takes  pleasure  in  them,  who  thinks 
that  such  writing  and  such  witticisms  as  he  gets  purveyed  to 
him  in  these  sheets  do  really  help  the  cause  of  tmth  and  intel- 
lectual freedom,  I  shall  not  attack  his  position  from  the  front. 
I  shall  try  to  undermine  it.  I  shall  aim  at  rousing  in  him  such 
a  state  of  feeling  as  may  suddenly  convince  him  that  what  is 
injured  by  writing  of  this  sort  is  not  the  orthodox  Christian,  or 
the  Church,  or  Jesus  of  ISTazareth,  but  always  and  inevitably, 
the  man  who  writes  it  and  the  man  who  loves  it !  His  mind  is 
possessed  of  an  inflaming  and  hateful  image,  which  drives  him 


EOBEBT  ELSMBRE.  671 

to  mockery  and  violence.  I  want  to  replace  it,  if  I  can,  by  one 
of  calm,  of  beauty  and  tenderness,  which  may  drive  him  to  hu- 
mihty  and  sympathy.  And  this,  indeed,  is  the  only  way  in 
which  opinion  is  ever  really  altered— by  the  substitution  of  one 
mental  picture  for  another." 

But  in  the  first  place,"  resumed  the  speaker,  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause,  changing  his  note  a  httle,  *'a  word  about  my- 
self. I  am  not  here  to-night  quite  in  the  position  of  the  casual 
stranger,  coming  down  to  your  district  for  the  first  time.  As 
some  of  you  know,  I  am  endeavoring  to  make  what  is  practi- 
cally a  settlement  among  you,  asking  you  workingmen  to  teach 
me,  if  you  will,  what  you  have  to  teach  as  to  the  wants  and 
prospects  of  your  order,  and  offering  you  in  return  whatever 
there  is  m  me  which  may  be  worth  your  taking.  Well,  I  im- 
agine I  should  look  at  a  man  who  preferred  a  claim  of  that  sort 
with  some  closeness !  You  may  well  ask  me  for  ' antecedents,' 
and  I  should  like,  if  I  may,  to  give  them  to  you  very  shortly. ' 

''Well,  then,  though  I  came  down  to  this  place  under  the 
wmg  of  M^.  Edwardes"  (some  cheering),  ^^who  is  so  greatly 
hked  and  respected  here,  I  am  not  a  Unitarian,  nor  am  I  an 
English  Churchman.  A  year  ago  I  was  the  vicar  of  an  English 
country  parish,  where  I  should  have  been  proud,  so  far  as  per- 
sonal happiness  went,  to  spend  my  life.  Last  autumn  I  left  it 
and  resigned  my  Orders  because  I  could  no  longer  accept  the 
creed  of  the  English  Church."  Unconsciously  the  thin,  digni- 
fied  figure  drew  itself  up,  the  voice  took  a  certain  dryness.  All 
this  was  distasteful,  but  the  orator's  instinct  was  imperious. 

As  he  spoke  about  a  score  of  pipes  which  had  till  now  been 
active  in  Flaxman's  neighborhood  went  down.  The  silence  in 
the  room  became  suddenly  of  a  perceptibly  different  quahty. 

''Since  then  I  have  joined  no  other  religious  association. 
But  It  is  not-God  forbid !— because  there  is  nothing  left  me  to 
beheve,  but  because  in  this  transition  England  it  is  well  for  a 
man  who  has  broken  with  the  old  things  to  be  vevy  patient. 
No  good  can  come  of  forcing  opinion  or  agreement  prematurely 
A  generation,  nay,  more,  may  h^ve  to  spend  itself  in  mere  wait- 
ing and  preparing  for  those  new  leaders  and  those  new  forms 
of  corporate  action  which  any  great  revolution  of  opinion,  such 
as  that  we  are  now  Hving  through,  has  always  produced  in  the 
past,  and  wOl,  we  are  justified  in  believing,  produce  again^ 
But  the  hour  and  the  men  will  come,  and  '  they  also  serve  who 
only  stand  and  wait  1 ' " 


572 


ROBERT  ELSMERB. 


Voice  and  look  had  kindled  into  fire.  The  consciousness  of 
his  audience  was  passing  from  him—the  world  of  ideas  was 
growing  clearer. 

*'So  much,  then,  for  personalities  of  one  sort.  Tliere  are 
some  of  another,  however,  which  I  must  touch  upon  for  a  mo- 
ment. I  am  to  speak  to  you  to-night  of  the  Jesus  of  history, 
but  not  only  as  an  historian.  History  is  good,  but  rehgion  is 
better !  and  if  Jesus  of  Nazareth  concerned  me,  and,  in  my  be- 
lief, concerned  you,  only  as  an  historical  figure,  I  should  not 
be  here  to-night. 

''But  I  am  to  talk  religion  to  you,  and  I  have  begun  by  tell- 
ing you  I  am  not  this  and  not  that,  it  seems  to  me  that  for  mere 
clearness'  sake,  for  the  sake  of  that  round  and  whole  image  of 
thought  which  I  want  to  present  to  you,  you  must  let  me  run 
through  a  preUminary  confession  of  faith— as  short  and  simple 
as  I  can  make  it.  You  must  let  me  describe  certain  views  of  the 
universe  and  of  man's  place  in  it,  which  make  the  frame-work, 
as  it  were,  into  which  I  shaU  ask  you  to  fit  the  picture  of  Jesus 
which  wiU  come  after." 

Robert  stood  a  moment  considering.  An  instant's  nervous- 
ness, a  momentary  sign  of  self -consciousness,  would  have 
broken  the  spell  and  set  the  room  against  him.  He  showed 
neither. 

*'My  friends,"  he  said  at  last,  speaking  to  the  crowded 
benches  of  London  workmen  with  the  same  simplicity  he  would 
have  used  toward  his  boys  at  Mure  well,  the  man  who  is  ad- 
dressing you  to-night  believes  in  God  ;  and  in  Conscience,  w^hich 
is  God's  witness  in  the  soul ;  and  in  Experience,  which  is  at  once 
the  record  and  the  instrument  of  man's  education  at  God's 
hands.  He  places  his  whole  trust,  for  life  and  death,  '  in  God 
the  Father  Almighty  '—in  that  force  at  the  root  of  things 
which  is  revealed  to  us  whenever  a  man  helps  his  neighbor,  or 
a  mother  denies  herself  for  her  child;  whenever  a  soldier  dies 
without  a  murmur  for  his  country,  or  a  sailor  puts  out  in  the 
darkness  to  rescue  the  perishing ;  whenever  a  workman  throws 
mind  and  conscience  into  his  work,  or  a  statesman  labors  not 
for  his  own  gain  but  for  that  of  the  state  I  He  believes  in  an 
Eternal  Goodness— and  an  Eternal  Mind- of  which  Nature 
and  Man  are  the  continuous  and  the  only  revelation—" 

The  room  grew  absolutely  still.  And  mto  the  silence  there 
fell,  one  by  one,  the  short,  terse  sentences,  in  which  the  seer, 
the  believer,  struggled  to  express  what  God  has  been,  is,  and 


EOBEET  ELSMEEB.  573 

wm  ever  be  to  the  soul  which  trusts  Him.  In  them  the  whole 
effort  or  the  speaker  was  reaUy  to  restrain,  to  moderate,  to  de- 
personalize the  voice  of  faith.  But  the  intensity  of  each  word 
burned  it  into  the  hearer  as  it  was  spoken.  Even  Lady  Char- 
lotte turned  a  little  pale-the  tears  stood  in  her  eyes 

Then  from  the  witness  of  God  in  the  soul,  and  in  the  history 
of  man  s  moral  life,  Elsmere  turned  to  the  glorification,  of  Ex- 
perience "of  that  unvarying  and  rational  order  of  the  world 
which  has  been  the  appointed  instrument  of  man's  training 
since  life  and  thought  began." 
"3'Aere,''  he  said,  slowly,  "in  the  unbroken  sequences  of 
I  nature,  m  the  piiysical  history  of  the  world,  in  the  long  histoT-y 
of  man,  physical,  intellectual,  moral-there  lies  the  revelation 
or  (jod.   There  is  no  other,  my  friends!" 

Then,  while  the  room  hung  on  his  words,  he  entered  on  a 
bnef  exposition  of  the  text,  "  Miracles  do  not  happen,"  restat- 
ing Hume  s  old  argument,  and  adding  to  it  some  of  the  most 
cogent  of  those  modern  arguments  drawn  from  literature,  from 
hisoory,  from  the  comparative  study  of  religions  and  religious 
eviaence,  which  were  not  practically  at  Hume's  disposal,  but 
which  are  now  affecting  the  popular  mind  as  Hume's  reason- 
ing could  never  have  affected  it. 

''  We  are  now  able  to  show  how  miracle,  or  the  belief  in  it 
which  IS  the  same  thing,  comes  mto  being.  The  study  of  miracle 
m  all  nations,  and  under  all  conditions,  yields  everywhere  the 
same  results.  Miracle  may  be  the  child  of  imagination,  of 
xove,  nay,  of  a  passionate  sincerity,  but  invariably  it  Hves  with 
Ignorance  and  is  withered  by  knowledge !" 

And  then,  with  lightening  unexpectedness,  he  turned  upon 
his  audience,  as  though  the  ardent  Sftul  reacted  at  once  against 
a  strain  of  mere  negation. 

"But  do  not  let  yourselves  imagine  for  an  instant  that  be 
cause  m  a  rational  view  of  history  there  is  no  place  for  a  Resur. 
rection  and  Ascension,  therefore  you  may  profitably  allow 
yourself  a  mean  and  miserable  mirth  of  thts  sort  oVer  the 
past !  and  his  outstretched  hand  strack  the  ne^yspapers  beside 
him  vvith  passion.  "Do  not  imagine  for  an  instant  that  what 
13  binding,  adorable,  beautiful  in  that  past  is  done  away  with 
wnen  miracle  is  given  up.  No,  thank  God.  We  still  •  live  by 
aumiration,  hope  and  love.'  God  only  draws  closer,  great 
iuen  become  greater,  human  life  more  wonderful  as  miracle 


ROBERT  KLSMERE. 


disappears.  Woe  to  you  if  you  can  not  see  it !— it  is  the  testing 
truth  of  our  day. 

And  besides— do  you  suppose  that  mere  violence,  mere  in- 
vective, and  savage  mockery  ever  accomphshed  any  thing— nay, 
whafis  more  to  the  point,  ever  destroyed  anything  in  human 
history?  No— an  idea  can  not  be  killed  from  without  it— it  can 
only  be  supplanted,  transformed,  by  another  idea,  and  that  one 
of  equal  virtue  and  magic.  Strange  paradox !  In  the  moral 
world  you  can  not  pull  down  except  by  gentleness— you  can 
not  revolutionize  except  by  sympathy.  Jesus  only  superseded 
Judaism  by  absorbing  and  recreating  all  that  was  best  in  it. 
There  are  no  inexpHcable  gaps  and  breaks  in  the  story  of 
humanity.  The  religion  of  to-day,  with  all  its  faults  and  mis- 
takes, will  go  on  unshaken  so  long  as  there  is  nothing  else  of 
equal  loveliness  and  potency  to  put  in  its  place.  The  Jesus  of 
the  churches  will  remain  paramount  so  long  as  the  man  of  to- 
day imagines  himself  dispensed  by  any  increase  of  knowledge 
from  loving  the  Jesus  of  history. 

But  why'i  you  will  ask  me.  What  does  the  Jesus  of  his- 
tory matter  to  me?" 

And  so  he  was  brought  to  the  place  of  great  men  in  the  de- 
velopment of  mankind— to  the  part  played  in  the  human  story 
by  those  lives  in  which  men  have  seen  all  their  noblest  thoughts 
of  God,  of  duty,  and  of  law  embodied,  realized  before  them 
with  a  shining  and  incomparable  beauty. 

.  .  .  You  think— because  it  is  becoming  plain  to  the 
modern  eye  that  the  ignorant  love  of  His  first  followers  wreathed 
His  Me  in  legend,  that  therefore  you  can  escape  from  Jesus  of  , 
Nazareth,  you  can  put  Hun  aside  as  though  He  had  never  been? 
Foil  y !  Do  what  you  willf  you  can  not  escape  Him.  His  life  and 
death  underlie  oiu*  institutions  as  the  alphabet  underlies  our 
Uterature.  Just  as  the  lives  of  Buddha  and  of  Mohammed  are 
wrought  ineffaceably  into  the  civilization  of  Africa  and  Asia, 
so  the  life  of  Jesus  is  wrought  ineffaceably  into  the  higher 
civilization,  the  nobler  social  conceptions  of  Europe.  It  is 
wrought  into  your  being  and  into  mine.  We  are  what  we 'are 
to-night,  as  Englishmen  and  as  citizens,  largely  because  a 
Gahlean  peasant  was  born  and  grew  to  manhood,  and  preached, 
and  loved,  and  died.  And  you  think  that  a  fact  so  tremend- 
ous can  be  just  scoffed  away— that  we  can  get  rid  of  it,  and  of 
our  share  in  it,  by  a  ribald  paragraph  and  a  caricature! 
'**No\  Your  hatred  and  your  ridicule  are  powerless.  And 


BOBEET  ELSMERE. 


575 


thank  God  they  are  powerless.   There  is  no  wanton  waste  in 
the  moral  world,  any  more  than  in  the  material.   There  is 
only  fruitful  change  and  beneficent  transformation.  Granted 
that  the  true  story  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth  was  from  the  begin- 
ning obscured  by  error  and  mistake;  granted  that  those  errors 
l^nd  mistakes  which  were  once  the  strength  of  Christianity  are 
^now  its  weakness,  and  by  the  slow  march  and  sentence  of  time 
-  are  now  threatening,  unless  we  can  clear  them  away,  to  lessen 
the  bold  of  Jesus  on  the  love  and  remembrance  of  man.  Whai^ 
|then?  The  fact  is  merely  a  call  to  you  and  me,  who  recognize 
fit,  to  go  back  to  the  roots  of  things,  to  reconceive  the  Christ, 
to  bring  Him  afresh  into  our  lives,  to  make  the  life  so  f ra^ly 
f^ven  for  man  minister  again  in  new  ways  to  man's  new  needs. 
Every  great  religion  is,  in  truth,  a  concentration  of  great  ideas,' 
capable,  as  aU  ideas  are,  of  infinite  expansion  and  adaptation. 
And  woe  to  our  human  weakness  if  it  loose  its  hold  one  instant 
before  it  must  on  any  of  those  rare  and  precious  possessions 
whi  jh  have  helped  it  in  the  past,  and  may  again  inspire  it  in 
the  future ! 

To  reconceive  the  Christ !  It  is  the  special  task  of  our  age, 
though  in  some  sort  and  degree  it  has  been  the  ever-recurring 
I^Msk  of  Europe  since  the  beginning." 

f:  He  paused,  and  then  very  simply,  and  so  as  to  be  understood 
by  those  who  heard  him,  he  gave  a  rapid  sketch  of  that  great 
operation  worked  by  the  best  intellect  of  Europe  during  the 
last  half  century— broadly  speaking— on  the  facts  and  docu- 
ments of  primitive  Christianity.  From  all  sides  and  by  the 
help  of  every  conceivable  instrument  those  facts  have  been  in- 
vestigated, and  now  at  last  the  great  result— *Hhe  revivified 
reconceived  truth  "—seems  ready  to  emerge !  Much  may  stiU 
6e  known— much  can  never  be  known,  but  if  we  will,  we  may 
now  discern  the  true  features  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  as  no  gen- 
eration but  our  own  has  been  able  to  discern  them  since  those 
"who  had  seen  and  handled  passed  away. 

*'Let  me  try,  however  feebly,  and  draw  it  afresh  for  you, 
that  Hfe  of  lives,  that  story  of  stories,  as  the  labor  of  our  own 
age  in  particular  has  patiently  revealed  it  to  us.  Come  back 
with  me  through  the  centuries;  let  us  try  and  see  the  Christ  of 
GalHee  and  the  Christ  of  Jerusalem  as  He  was,  before  a  credu- 
lous love  and  Jewish  tradition  and  Greek  subtlety  had  at  once 
dimmed  and  glorified  the  truth.  A  h !  do  what  we  will,  it  is  so 
scanty  and  poor,  this  knowledge  of  ours,  compared  with  all 


576 


that  we  yearn  to  know— but,  such  as  it  is,  let  me,  very  humbly 
and  very  tentatively,  endeavor  to  put  it  before  you." 

At  this  point  Flaxman's  attention  was  suddenly  distracted 
by  a  stir  round  the  door  of  entrance  on  his  left  hand.  Looking 
round,  he  saw  a  Ritualist  priest,  in  cassock  and  cloak,  disput- 
ing in  hurried  under-tones  with  the  men  about  the  door.  At 
last  he  gained  his  point  apparently,,  for  the  men,  with  half- 
angry,  half-quizzing  looks  at  each  other,  allowed  him  to  come 
•n,  and  he  found  a  seat.  Flaxman  was  greatly  struck  \)y  the 
face — by  its  ascetic  beauty,  the  stern  and  yet  delicate  whiteness 
and  emaciation  of  it.  He  sat  with  both  hands  resting  on  the 
stick  he  held  in  front  of  him,  intently  listening,  the  perspira- 
tion of  physical  weakness  on  his  brow,  and  round  his  finely 
curved  mouth.  Clearly  he  could  hardly  see  the  lecturer,  for 
the  room  had  become  inconveniently  crowded,  and  the  men 
about  him  were  mostly  standing. 

''One  of  the  St.  Wilfred's  priests,  I  suppose,"  Flaxman  said 
to  himself.  **What  on  earth  is  he  doing  dam  cette  galeref 
Are  we  to  have  a  disputation?  That  would  be  dramatic." 

He  had  no  attention,  however,  to  spare,  and  the  intruder 
was  promptly  forgotten.  When  he  turned  back  to  the  plat- 
form he  found  that  Robert,  with  Mackay's  help,  had  hung  on 
a  screen  to  his  right,  four  or  five  large  drawings  of  Nazareth, 
of  the  Lake  of  Gennesaret,  of  Jerusalem,  and  the  Temple  of 
Herod,  of  the  ruins  of  that  synagogue  on  the  probable  site  of 
Capernaum  in  which  conceivably  Jesus  may  have  stood.  They 
were  bold  and  striking,  and  filled  the  bare  hall  at  once  with 
suggestions  of  the  East.  He  had  used  them  often  at  Mure- 
well.  Then,  adopting  a  somewhat  different  tone,  he  plimged 
into  the  life  of  Jesus.  He  brought  to  it  all  his  trained  historical 
power,  all  his  story-teUing  faculty,  all  his  sympathy  with  th© 
needs  of  feeling.  And  bit  by  bit,  as  the  quick  nervous  sen- 
tences issued  and  struck,  each  like  the  touch  of  a  chisel,  the 
majestic  figure  emerged,  set  against  its  natural  background, 
instinct  with  some  fraction  at  least  of  the  magic  of  reality, 
most  human,  most  persuasive,  most  tragic.  He  brought  out 
the  great  words  of  the  new  faith,  to  which,  v;*atever  may  be 
their  literal  origin,  Jesus  and  Jesus  only,  gave  currency  and 
immortal  force.  He  dwelt  on  the  magic,  the  permanence,  the 
©xpansiveness,  of  the  young  Nazarene's  central  conception— 
the  spiritualized,  universalized  "Kingdom  of  God."  Els- 
mere's  thought,  indeed,  knpw  nothing  of  a  perfect  man,  as  it 


ROBERT  ELSMERE, 


577 


knew  nothing  of  an  incarnate  God ;  he  shrunk  from  nothing 
that  he  heheved  true;  but  every  limitation,  every  reserve  he 
allowed  himself  did  but  make  the  whole  more  poignantly  real, 
and  the  claim  of  Jesus  more  penetrating. 

''The  world  has  grown  since  Jesus  preached  in  Galilee  and 
Judaea.  We  can  not  learn  the  whole  of  God's  lesson  from  Him 
now— nay,  we  could  not  then!  But  all  that  is  most  essential 
to  man— all  that  saves  the  soul,  all  that  purifies  the  heart- 
that  He  has  still  for  you  and  me,  as  He  had  it  for  the  men  and 
women  of  His  own  time." 

Then  he  came  to  the  last  scenes.  His  voice  sunk  a  little; 
his  notes  dropped  from  his  hand ;  and  the  silence  grew  oppress- 
ive. The  dramatic  force,^^the  tender  passionate  insight,  the 
fearless  modernness  with  which  the  story  was  told,  made  it 
almost  unbearable.  Those  listening  saw'the  trial,  the  streets 
of  Jerusalem,  that  desolate  place  outside  the  northern  gate; 
they  were  spectators  of  the  torture,  they  heard  the  last  cry.' 
No  one  present  had  ever  so  seen,  so  heard  before.  Rose  had 
hidden  her  face.  Flaxman  for  the  first  time  forgot  to  watch 
the  audience;  the  men  had  forgotten  each  other;  and  for  the 
first  time  that  night,  in  many  a  cold,  imbittered  heart  there 
was  born  that  love  of  the  Son  of  Man  which  Nathaniel  felt, 
and  John,  and  Mary  of  Bethany,  and  which  has  in  it  now,  as 
then,  the  promise  of  the  future. 

'''He  laid  him  in  a  tomb  which  had  been  hewn  out  of  a  rock, 
and  he  rolled  a  stone  against  the  door  of  the  tomb.'  The  ashes 
of  Jesus  of  Nazareth  mingled  with  the  earth  of  Palestine: 

Far  hence  he  lies 

In  the  lorn  Syrian  town, 
And  on  his  grave  with  shining  eyes. 

The  Syrian  stars  look  down.' " 

He  stopped.  The  melancholy  cadence  of  the  verse  died  away. 
Then  a  gleam  broke  over  the  pale  exhausted  face— a  gleam  of 
extraordinary  sweetness. 

And  in  the  days  and  weeks  that  followed  the  devout  and 
passionate  fancy  of  a  few  mourning  Galileans  begat  the  ex- 
quisite fable  of  the  Resurrection.  How  natural— and  amid  all 
its  falseness— how  true,  is  that  naive  and  contradictory  story  I 
The  rapidity  with  which  it  spread  is  a  measure  of  many  things. 
It  is,  above  all,  a  measure  of  the  greatness  of  Jesus^  of  tha 


578 


BOBEBT  ELSMEBB. 


force  with  which  He  had  drawn  to  himself  the  heaiiis  and  im^ 
aginations  of  men.   .   .  . 

And  now,  my  friends,  what  of  all  this?  If  these  Inings  I 
have  been  saying  to  you  are  true,  what  is  the  upshot  of  them 
for  you  and  me?  Simply  this,  as  I  conceive  it— that  instead  of 
wasting  your  time,  and  degrading  your  souls,  by  indulgence  in 
such  grime  as  this" — and  he  pointed  to  the  newspapers — **it 
is  your  urgent  business  and  mine— at  this  moment— to  do  our 
very  utmost  to  bring  this  life  of  Jesus,  our  precious  invaluable 
possession  as  a  people,  back  into  some  real  and  cogent  relation 
with  our  modem  lives  and  beliefs  and  hopes.  Do  not  answer 
me  that  such  an  effort  is  a  mere  dream  and  futility,  conceived 
in  the  vague,  apart  from  reality— that  men  must  have  souie- 
thing  to  worship,  ar^d  that  if  they  can  not  worship  Jesus  they 
will  not  trouble  to  love  him.  Is  the  world  desolate  with  God 
still  in  it,  and  does  it  rest  merely  with  us  to  love  or  not  to 
love  ?  Love  and  revere  something  we  mu^t,  if  we  are  to  be 
men  and  not  beasts.  At  all  times  and  in  all  nations,  as  I  have 
tried  to  show  you.  man  has  helped  himseK  by  the  constant  and 
passionate  memory  of  those  great  ones  of  his  race  who  have 
spoken  to  him  most  audibly  of  God  and  of  eternal  hope.  And 
for  us  Europeans  and  Englishmen,  as  I  have  also  tried  to  show 
you,  history  and  inheritance  have  decided.  If  we  turn  away 
from  the  true  Jesus  of  Nazareth  because  He  has  been  disfigured 
and  misrepresented  by  the  Churches,  we  turn  away  from  that 
in  which  our  weak  wills  and  desponding  souls  are  meant  to 
find  their  most  obvious  and  natural  help  and  inspiration— from 
that  symbol  of  the  Divine,  which,  of  necessity,  means  most  to 
us.  No !  give  Him  back  your  hearts— be  ashamed  that  you 
have  ever  forgotten  your  debt  to  Him !  Let  combination  and 
brotherhood  do  for  the  newer  and  simpler  faith  what  they  did 
once  for  the  old- -let  them  give  it  a  practical  shape,  a  practical 
grip  on  human  life.  .  .  .  Then  we  too  shall  have  our  East- 
er!—we  too  shall  have  the  right  to  say,  He  is  not  here,  He  is 
risefii.  Not  here— in  legend,  in  miracle,  in  the  beautiful  out- 
worn forms  and  crystallizations  of  older  thought.  He  is  risen 
— in  a  wiser  reverence  and  a  more  reasonable  love;  risen  in 
new  forms  of  social  help  inspired  by  His  memory,  called  afresh 
by  His  name  !  Risen— if  you  and  your  children  will  it— in  a 
church  or  company  of  the  faithful,  over  the  gates  of  which  two 
sayings  of  man  s  past,  into  which  man's  present  has  breathed 
new  meanings,  shall  be  written: 


EOBEBT  ELSMBKB. 


679 


'"In  Thee,  O  Eternal,  have  I  put  my  trust :' 

and 

"  '  This  do  ia  remembrance  of  Me.' " 
The  rest  was  soon  over.  The  audience  woke  from  the  trance 
in  which  it  had  been  held  with  a  sudden  burst  of  talk  and 
movement.  In  the  midst  of  it,  and  as  the  majority  of  the 
audience  were  filing  out  into  the  adjoining  room,  the  gas-fitter's 
tall  companion,  Andrews,  mounted  the  platform,  whUe  the  gas- 
fitter  himself,  with  an  impatient  shrug,  pushed  his  way  into 
the  outgoing  crowd,  Andrews  went  slowly  and  deUberately  to 
work,  dealing  out  his  long,  cantankerous  sentences  with  a 
nasal  sang  froid  which  seemed  to  change  in  a  moment  the 
whole  aspect  and  temperature  of  things.  He  remarked  that 
Mr.  Elsmere  had  talked  of  what  gi-eat  scholars  had  done  to 
clear  up  this  matter  of  Christ  and  Christianity.  -Well,  he  was 
free  to  maintain  that  old  Tom  Paine  was  as  good  a  scholar  as 
any  of  'em,  and  most  of  them  in  that  hall  knew  what  he 
thought  about  it,  Tom  Paine  hadn't  anything  to  say  against 
Jesus  Christ,  and  he  hadn't.  He  was  a  worki_ian  and  a  fine 
sort  of  man,  and  if  he'd  l^en  alive  now  he'd  have  been  a  So- 
cialist, ' '  as  most  of  us  are, "  and  he'd  have  made  it  hot  for  the 
nch  loafers,  and  the  sweaters,  and  the  middlemen,  "as  we'd 
like  to  make  it  hot.for  'em."  But  as  for  those  people  who  got 
up  the  Church— Mythologists  Tom  Paine  called  'em— and  the 
miracles,  and  made  an  uncommonly  good  thing  out  of  it 
pecuniarily  speaking,  he  didn't  see  what  they'd  got  to  do  with 
keeping  up,  or  mending,  or  presei-ving  th^r  precious  bit  of 
work.   The  world  had  found  'em  out,  and  serve  'em  right 

And  he  wound  up  with  a  fierce  denunciation  of  priests  not 
'  thout  a  harsh  savor  and  eloquence,  which  was  much  clapped 
by  ^  ^e  small  knot  of  workmen  amoag  whom  he  had  been 
standing. 

Then  there  followed  a  Socialist— an  eager,  ugly  black- 
bearded  little  feUow,  who  preached  the  absolute  necessity  of 
doing  without  "any  cultus  whatsoever,"  threw  scorn  on  both 
the  Christians  and  the  Positivists  for  refusing  so  to  deny  them- 
selves, and  appealed  earnestly  to  his  group  of  hearers  "  to  help 
m  brmgmg  religion  back  from  heaven  to  earth,  where  it  be- 
longs." Mr.  Elsmere's  new  church,  if  he  ever  got  it,  would 
only  be  a  fresh  instrument  in  the  hands  of  the  bourgeoisie 
And  when  the  people  had  got  their  rights  and  brought  down 
tbe  capitalists,  they  were  not  going  to  be  such  fools  as  put 


580 


BOBEBT  ELSMEBB. 


their  necks  under  the  heel  of  what  were  called    the  cjducate(X 

classes."  The  people  who  wrote  the  newspapers  Mr.  Elsmere 
objected  to,  knew  quite  enough  for  the  working-man— and 
people  should  not  be  too  smooth-spoken;  what  the  working 
class  wanted  beyond  everything  just  now  was  grit 

A  few  other  short  speeches  followed,  mostly  of  the  common 
Secularist  type,  in  defense  of  the  newspapers  attacked.  But 
the  defense,  on  the  whole,  was  shuffling  and  curiously  half- 
hearted. Robert,  sitting  by  with  his  head  on  his  hand,  felt 
that  there,  at  any  rate,  his  onslaught  had  told. 

He  said  a  few  words  in  reply,  in  a  low  husky  voice,  without 
a  trace  of  his  former  passion,  and  the  meeting  broke  up.  The 
room  had  quickly  filled  when  it  was  known  that  he  was  up 
again;  and  as  he  descended  the  steps  of  the  platform,  after 
shaking  hands  with  the  chairman,  the  himdreds  present  broke 
into  a  sudden  burst  of  cheering.  Lady  Charlotte  pressed  for- 
ward to  him  through  the  crowd,  offering  to  take  him  home. 

Come  with  us,  Mr.  Elsmere;  you  look  like  a  ghost."  But 
he  shook  his  he.x.d,  smiling.  "  No,  thank  you.  Lady  Charlotte 
—I  must  have  some  air,"  and  he  took  her  out  on  his  arm, 
while  Flaxman  followed  with  Rose. 

It  once  occurred  to  Flaxman  to  look  round  for  the  priest  he 
had  seen  come  in.  But  there  were  no  signs  of  him.  had 
an  idea  he  would  have  spoken,^' he  thought.  **Just  as  well, 
perhaps.   We  should  have  had  a  row." 

Lady  Charlotte  threw  herself  back  in  the  carriage  as  they 
drove  off,  with  a  long  breath,  and  the  inward  reflection,  So 
his  wife  wouldn't  come  and  hear  him!  Must  be  a  woman  with 
a  character  that— a  Strafford  in  petticoats  1" 

Robert  turned  up  the  street  to  the  city,  the  tall,  slight  figure 
seeming  to  shrink  together  as  he  walked.  After  his  passionate 
effort,  indescribable  depression  had  overtaken  him. 

Words— words!"  he  said  to  himself,  striking  out  his  hands 
in  a  kind  of  feverish  protest,  as  he  strode  along,  against  his 
own  powerlessness,  against  that  weight  of  the  present  and  the 
actual  which  seems  to  the  enthusiast  alternately  light  as  air, 
or  heavy  as  the  mass  of  Etna  on  the  breast  of  Enceladus. 

Suddenly,  at  the  corner  of  a  street,  a  man's  figure  in  a  long 
black  robe  stopped  him  and  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm. 

**Newcome!"  cried  Robert,  standing  still. 

"I  was  there,"  said  the  other,  bending  forward  and  looking 


f'- 

KOBERT  ELSMERE.  58) 

close  into  his  eyes.  I  heard  almost  all.  I  went  to  confront, 
to  denounce  you !" 

By  the  light  of  a  lamp  not  far  off  Robert  caught  the  atten 
uated  whiteness  and  sharpness  of  the  well-known  face,  to  which 
weeks  of  fasting  and  mystical  excitement  had  given  a  kind  of - 
unearthly  remoteness.  He  gathered  himself  together  with  an 
inward  groan.  He  felt  as  though  there  were  no  force  in  him 
at  that  moment  wherewith  to  meet  reproaches,  to  beat  down 
fanaticism.  The  pressure  on  nerve  and  strength  seemed  un- 
bearable. 

Newcome,  watching  him  with  eagle  eye,  saw  the  suddei^ 
shrinking  and  hesitation.  He  had  often  in  old  days  felt  the 
same  sense  of  power  over  the  man  who  yet,  in  what  seemed 
his  weakness,  had  always  escaped  him  in  the  end. 

went  tp  denounce,"  he  continued,  in  a  strange,  tense 
voice,    and  the  Lord  refused  it  to  me.   He  kept  me  watching 

j  -  for  you  here.  These  words  are  not  mine  I  speak.  I  waited 
patiently  in  that  room  till  the  Lord  should  deliver  His  enemy 
into  my  hand.  My  wrath  was  hot  against  the  deserter  that 
could  not  even  desert  in  silence— hot  against  his  dupes.  Then 

I  suddenly  words  came  to  me— they  have  come  to  me  before, 
they  burn  up  the  very  heart  and  marrow  in  me—'  Who  is  he 
that  saith,  and  it  cometh  to  pass,  and  the  Lord  commandeth  it 
notf '  There  they  were  in  my  ears,  written  on  the  walls— the 
air—'' 

The  hand  dropped  from  Robert's  arm.  A  dull  look  of  de- 
feat, of  regret,  darkened  the  gleaming  eyes.  They  were  stand- 
ing in  a  quiet  deserted  street,  but  through  a  side  opening  the 
lights,  the  noise,  the  turbulence  of  the  open-air  market  came 
drifting  to  them  through  the  rainy  atmosphere  which  blurred 
and  magnijBed  everything. 

Ay,  after  days  and  nights  in  His  most  blessed  sanctuary," 
Newcome  resumed,  slowly,  came  by  his  commission,  bs\ 
thought,  to  fight  His  battle  with  a  traitor!  And  at  the  Ip^t 
moment  His  strength,  which  was  in  me,  went  from  me.  I  sat 
there  dumb ;  His  hand^was  heavy  upon  me.  His  will  be  done !" 

The  voice  sunk;  the  priest  drew  his  thin  shaking  hand  across 
his  eyes,  as  though  the  awe  of  a  mysterious  struggle  were  still 
upon  him.  Then  he  turned  again  to  Elsmere,  his  face  soften- 
mg,  radiating. 

Elsmere,  take  the  sign,  the  message!  I  thought  it  was 
given  to  me  to  declare  the  Lord's  wrath.   Instead,  He  sends 


582 


EGBERT  ELSMERE. 


you  once  more  by  me,  even  now— even  fresh  from  this  new 
defiance  of  his  mercy,  the  tender  offer  of  His  grace!  He  hes 
at  rest  to-night,  my  brother"— what  sweetness  in  the  low 
vibrating  tones!— after  all  the  anguish.  Let  me  draw  you 
down  on  your  knees  beside  Him.  It  is  you,  you,  who  have 
helped  to  drive  in  the  nails,  to  embitter  the  agony !  It  is  you 
who  in  His  loneliness  have  been  robbing  Him  of  the  souls  that 
should  be  His !  It  is  you  who  have  been  doing  your  utmost  to 
make  His  Cross  and  Passion  of  no  effect.  Oh,  let  it  break 
your  heart  to  think  of  it !  Watch  by  Him  to-night,  my  friend, 
my  brother,  and  to-morrow  let  the  risen  Lord  reclaim  His 

ownl"  .    ,  I. 

Never  had  Robert  seen  any  mortal  face  so  persuasively  beau- 
tiful ;  never  surely  did  saint  or  ascetic  plead  with  a  more  pene- 
trating gentleness.  After  the  storm  of  those  opening  words 
the  change  was  magical.  The  tears  stood  in  Elsmere's  eyes. 
But  his  quick  insight,  in  spite  of  himself,  divined  the  subtle 
aatural  facts  behind  the  outburst,  the  strained  physical  state, 
the  irritable  brain— aU  the  consequences  of  a  long  defiance  of 
physical  and  mental  law.  The  priest  repeUed  him,  the  man 
drew  him  hke  a  magnet.  ,  . 

What  can  I  say  to  you,  Newcome?"  he  cried,  despairmgly. 
Let  me  say  nothing,  dear  old  friend!  I  am  tired  out;  so  I, 
expect,  are  you.  I  know  what  this  week  has  been  to  you. 
Y/alk  with  me  a  httle.  Leave  these  great  things  alone.  We 
can  not  agree.  Be  content-God  knows!  TeU  me  about  the 
old  nlace  and  the  people.   I  long  for  news  of  them." 

Assort  of  shudder  passed  through  his  companion.  Newcome 
stood  wrestling  with  himself.  It  was  Hke  the  slow  departure 
of  a  possessing  force.  Then  he  somberly  assented,  and  tney 
turned  toward  the  city.  But  his  answers,  as  Robert  questioned 
him,  were  sharp  and  mechanical,  and  presently  it  became  evi- 
dent that  the  demands  of  the  ordinary  talk  to  which  Elsmere 
rigorously  held  him  were  more  than  he  could  bear. 

As  they  reached  St.  Paul's,  towering  into  the  watery  moon- 
light of  the  clouded  sky,  he  stopped  abruptly  and  said  good- 
night. .  , 
You  came  to  me  in  the  spirit  of  war,"  said  Robert,  with 
some  emotion,  as  he  held  his  hand ;  '  *  give  me  instead  the  grasp 

of  peace !"  .         i  a 

The  spell  of  his  manner,  his  presence,  prevailed  at  last.  A 
melancholy,  quivering  smile  dawned  on  the  priest's  dehcate  lip. 


ROBEST  ELSMERE. 


58a 


*'God  bless  you— God  restore  you  I"  he  said,  sadly,  and  was 
gone. 

•     CHAPTEE  XLI. 

A  WEEK  later  Elsmere  was  startled  to  find  himself  detained, 
after  his  story-telling,  by  a  trio  of  workmen,  asking,  on  behalf 

of  some  thirty  or  forty  members  of  the  North  R  Club,  that 

he  would  give  them  a  course  of  lectures  on  the  New  Testament. 
One  of  them  was  the  gas-fitter  Charles  Richards;  another  was 
the  watchmaker  Lestrange,  who  had  originally  challenged 
Robert  to  deliver  himself;  and  the  third  was  a  tough  old 
Scotchman  of  sixty,  with  a  philosophical  turn,  under  whos6 
spoutings  of  Hume  and  Locke,  of  Reid  and  Dugald  Stewart, 
delivered  in  the  shrillest  of  cracked  voices,  the  club  had  writhed 
many  an  impatient  haK  hour  on  debating  nights.  He  had  an 
unexpected  artistic  gift,  a  kind  of  ''sport"  as  compared  with 
the  rest  of  his  character,  which  made  him  a  valued  designer  in 
the  pottery  works;  but  his  real  interests  were  speculative  and 
argumentative,  concerned  with  common  nawtions  and  the 
praimary  elements  of  reason,"  and  the  appearance  of  RoSert 
in  the  district  seemed  to  offer  him  at  last  a  foeman  worthy  of  ^ 
his  steel.  Elsmere  shrewdly  suspected  that  the  last  two  looked 
forward  to  any  teaching  he  might  give  mostly  as  a  new  and 
favorable  exercising  ground  for  their  own  wits;  but  he  took 
the  risk,  gladly  accepted  the  invitation,  and  fixed  Sunday  after- 
noons for  a  weekly  New  Testament  lecture. 

His  first  lecture,  which  he  prepared  with  great  care,  was 
delivered  to  thirty-seven  men  a  fortnight  later.  It  was  on  the 
political  and  social  state  of  Palestine  and  the  East  at  the  time 
of  Christ's  birth;  and  Robert,  who  was  as  fervent  a  believer  in 
''large  maps"  as  Lord  Salisbury,  had  prepared  a  goodly  store 
of  them  for  the  occasion,  together  with  a  number  of  drawings 
and  photographs  which  formed  part  of  the  collection  he  had 
been  gradually  making  since  his  own  visit  to  the  Holy  Land. 
There  was  nothing  he  laid  more  stress  on  than  these  helps  to 
the  eye  and  imagination  in  dealing  with  the  Bible.  He  was 
accustomed  to  maintain  in  his  arguments  with  Hugh  Flaxman 
that  the  orthodox  traditional  teaching  of  Christianity  would 
become  impossible  as  soon  as  it  should  be  the  habit  to  make  a 
free  and  modern  use  of  history  and  geography  and  social  ma- 
terial in  connection  with  the  Gospels.  Nothing  tends  so  much, 
he  would  say,  to  break  down  the  irrational  barrier  which  men 


584 


B9BEBT  ELSMEBE. 


have  raised  about  this  particular  tract  of  historical^pace,  noth 
ing  helps  so  much  to  let  in  the  light  and  air  of  scientific  thought 
upon  it,  and  therefore  nothing  prepares  the  way  so  effectively 
for  a  series  of  new  conceptions. 

By  a  kind  of  natural  selection,  Richards  became  Elsmere's 
chief  helper  and  adjutant  in  the  Sunday  lectures— with  regard 
to  all  such  matters  as  beating  up  recruits,  keeping  guard  over 
portfolios,  handing  round  maps  and  photographs,  etc.— sup- 
planting in  this  function  the  jealous  and  sensitive  Mackay, 
who,  after  his  original  opposition,  had  now  arrived  at  regard- 
ing Robert  as  his  own  particular  property,  and  the  lecturer's 
quick  smile  of  thanks  for  services  rendered  as  his  own  especial 
right.  The  bright,  quicksilvery,  irascible  Uttle  workman,  how- 
ever, was  irresistible  and  had  his  way.  He  had  taken  a  passion 
for  Robert  as  for  a  being  of  another  order  and  another  world. 
In  the  discussions  which  generally  followed  the  lecture  he 
showed  a  receptiveness,  an  inteUigence,  which  were  in  reahty  a 
matter  not  of  the  mind  but  of  the  heart.  He  loved,  therefore 
he  understood.  At  the  club  he  stood  for  Elsmere  with  a  quiv- 
eriftg  spasmodic  eloquence,  as  against  Andrews  and  the  Secu- 
larists. One  thing  only  puzzled  Robert.  Among  all  the  little 
fellow's  sallies  and  indiscretions,  which  were  not  infrequent,  no 
reference  to  his  home  life  was  ever  included.  Here  he  kept 
even  Robert  absolutely  at  arm's  length.  Robert  knew  that  he 
was  married  and  had  children,  nothing  more. 

The  old  Scotchman,  Macdonald,  came  out  after  the  first 
lecture  somewhat  crest-fallen. 

**Not  the  sort  of  stQoff  I'd  expected!"  he  said,  with  a  shake 
of  perplexity  on  the  rugged  face.  He  doosn't  talk  eneuf  in 
the  aabstrafct  for  me." 

But  he  went  again,  and  the  second  lecture,  on  the  origin  of 
the  Gospels,  got  hold  of  him,  especially  as  it  supphed  him  with 
a  whole  armory  of  new  arguments  in  support  of  Hume's  doc- 
trine of  conscience,  and  in  defiance  of  that  blatin' creetur, 
Reid."  The  thesis  with  which  Robert,  drawing  on  some  of  the 
stores  supphed  him  by  the  squire's  book,  began  his  account— 
i,  e.,  the  gradual  growth  within  the  Umits  of  history  of  man's 
capacity  for  teUing  the  exact  truth— fitted  in,  to  the  Scotch- 
man's thinking,  so  providentially  with  his  own  ,  favorite  ex- 
perimental doctrines  as  against  the  ''intueetion"  folks,  "who 
wiU  have  it  that  a  babby's  got  as  moch  mind  as  Mr.  Glad- 


nOBUU-t  ELSMERE. 


685 


stone,  ef  it  only  knew  it !"  that  afterward  he  never  missed  a 
lecture. 

.  Lestrange  was  more  difficult.  He  had  the  inherited  tempera- 
ment of  the  Genevese  frondeur,  which  made  Geneva  th^  head- 
quarters of  Calvinism  in  the  sixteenth  century,  and  bids  fair  to 
make  her  the  headquarters  of  continental  radicalism  in  the 
nineteenth.  Robert  never  felt  his  wits  so  much  stretched  and 
sharpened  as  when  after  the  lecture  Lestrange  was  putting 
questions  and  objections  with  an  acrid  subtlety  and  persistence 
worthy  of  a  descendant  of  that  burgher  class  which  first  built 
up  the  Calvinistic  system  and  then  produced  the  destroyer  of 
it  in  Rousseau.  Robert  bore  his  heckling,  however,  with  great 
patience  and  adroitness.  He  had  need  of  all  he  knew,  as  Mur- 
ray Edwardes  had  warned  him.  But  luckily  he  knew  a  great 
deal;  his  thought  was  clearing  and  settling  month  by  month, 
and  whatever  he  may  have  lost  at  any  moment  by  the  turn  of 
an  argument,  he  recovered  immediately  afterward  by  the  force 
of  personality,  and  of  a  single-mindedness  in  which  there  was 
never  a  trace  of  personal  grasping. 

Week  by  week  the  lecture  became  more  absorbing  to  him,  the 
men  more  pliant,  his  hold  on  them  firmer.  His  disinterested- 
ness, his  brightness  and  resource,  perhaps,  too,  the  signs  about 
him  of  a  Hght  and  frail  physical  organization,  the  novelty  of 
his  position,  the  inventiveness  of  his  method,  gave  him  little  by 
little  an  immense  power  in  the  place.  After  the  first  two 
lectures  Murray  Edwardes  became  his  constant  and  enthusi- 
astic hearer  on  Sunday  afternoons,  and,  catching  some  of 
Robert's  ways  and  spirit,  he  gradually  brought  his  own  chapel 
and  teaching  more  and  more  into  line  with  the  Elgood  Street 
undertaking.  So  that  the  venture  of  the  two  men  began  to  take 
ever  larger  proportions;  and,  kindled  by  the  growing  interest 
and  feeling  about  him,  dreams  began  to  rise  in  Elsmere's  mind 
which  as  yet  he  hardly  dared  to  cherish ;  which  came  and  went, 
however,  weavmg  a  substance  for  themselves  out  of  each  suc- 
cessive incident  and  effort. 

Meanwhile  he  was  at  work  on  an  average  three  evenings  in 
the  week  besides  the  Sunday.  In  West  End  drawing-rooms 
his  personal  gift  had  begun  to  tell  no  less  than  in  this  crowded, 
squalid  east ;  and  as  his  aims  became  kpo  wn,  other  men,  finding 
the  thoughts  of  their  own  hearts  revealed  in  him,  or  touched 
^th  that  social  compunction  which  is  one  of  the  notes  of  our 
iime,  came  down  and  became  his  helpers.   Of  all  the  social 


projects  of  which  that  Elgood  Street  room  became  the  center. 
Elsmere  was,  in  some  sense,  the  life  and  inspiration.  But  it 
was  not  the^e  projects  themselves  which  made  this  period  of  his 
life  remarkable.  London  at  the  present  moment,  if  it  be  honey- 
combed with  vice  and  misery,  is  also  honeycombed  with  the 
labor  of  an  ever-expanding  charity.  Week  by  week  men  and 
■women  of  like  gifts  and  energies  with  Elsmere  spend  them-  , 
selves,  as  he  did,  in  the  constant  effort  to  serve  and  to  alleviate. 
What  was  noticeable,  what  was  remarkable  in  this  work  of  his,  i 
was  the  spirit,  the  religious  passion  which,  radiating  from  him, 
began  after  awhile,  to  kindle  the  whole  body  of  men  about 
him.  It  was  from  his  Sunday  lectures  and  his  talks  with  the 
children,  boys  and  girls,  who  came  in  after  the  lecture  to  spend 
a  happy  hour  and  a  half  with  him  on  Sunday  afternoons,  that 
in  later  years  hundreds  of  men  and  women  will  date  the  begin- 
nings of  a  new,  absorbing  life.  There  came  a  time,  indeed,  j 
when,  instead  of  meeting  criticism  by  argument,  Robert  was  • 
able  simply  to  point  to  accomplished  facts.  ''You  ask  me," 
he  would  say  in  effect,  "  to  prove  to  you  that  men  can  love, 
can  make  a  new  and  fruitful  use,  for  daily  life  and  conduct,  of 
a  merely  human  Christ.  Go  among  our  men,  talk  to  our  chil- 
dren, and  satisfy  yourself.  A  httle  while  ago  scores  of  these 
men  either  hated  the  very  name  of  Christianity  or  Kere^entirely 
indifferent  to  it.  To  scores  of  them  now  the  name  of  the 
teacher  of  Nazareth,  the  victim  of  Jerusalem,  is  dear  and  sacred ; 
His  life,  His  death.  His  words,  are  becoming  once  more  a  con- 
stant source  of  moral  effort  and  spiritual  hope.  See  for  your-  ! 
self!" 

However,  we  are  anticipating.   Let  us  go  back  to  May. 

One  beautiful  morning  Robert  was  sitting  working  in  his 
study,  his  windows  open  to  the  breezy  blue  sky  and  the  budding  | 
plane-trees  outside,  when  the  door  was  thrown  op6n  and  Mr. 
Wend  over"  was  announced. 

The  squire  entered;  but  what  a  shrunken  and  aged  squire! 
The  gait  was  feeble,  the  bearing  had  lost  all  its  old  erectness, 
the  bronzed  strength  of  the  face  had  given  place  to  a  waxen  and 
ominous  pallor.  Robert,  springing  up  with  joy  to  meet  the 
great  gust  of  Murewell  air  which  seemed  to  blow  about  him 
with  the  mention  of  the  squire's  name,  was'  struck,  arrested. 
He  guided  his  guest  to  a  chair  with  an  almost  filial  carefulness. 

''I  don't  believe,  squire,"  he  exclaimed,  ''you  ought  to  be 
doing  this— wandering  about  London  by  yourself  J" 


ROBERT  ELSMERB. 


537 


But  the  squire,  as  silent  and  angular  as  ever  when  anything 
personal  to  himself  was  concerned,  woiiid  take  no  notice  of 
the  implied  anxiety  and  sympathy.  He  grasped  his  umbrella 
between  his  knees  with  a  pair  of  brown  twisted  hands,  and, 
sitting  very  upright,  looked  critically  round  the  room.  Robert, 
studying  the  dwindled  figure,  remembered  with  a  pang  the 
saying  of  another  Oxford  scholar,  apropos  of  the  death  of  a 
yoiing  man  of  extraordinary  promise,  What  learning  has 
perished  with  him!  How  vain  seems  all  toil  to  acquirer^— and 
the  words,  as  they  passed  through  his  mind,  seemed  to  him  to 
ring  another  death-knell. 

But  after  the  first  painful  impression  he  could  not  help  los- 
ing himself  in  the  pleasure  of  the  familiar  face,  the  Murewell 
associations.  - 

*'How  is  the  village,  and  the  institute?  And  what  sort  of 
man  is  my  successor— the  man,  I  mean,  who  came  aft^ 
Armitstead?" 

*'Ihad  him  once  to  dinner,"  said  the  squire,  briefly:  *'he 
made  a  false  quantity,  and  asked  me  to  subscribe  to  the 
Church  Missionary  Society.  I  haven't  seen  him  since.  He  and 
the  village  have  been  at  loggerheads  about  the  institute,  I  be- 
lieve. He  wanted  to  turn  out  the  dissenters.  Bateson  came 
to  me,  and  we  circumvented  him,  of  course.  But  the  man's 
an  ass.   Don't  talk  of  him  I" 

Robert  sighed  a  long  sigh.  Was  aU  his  work  undone?  It 
wrung  his  heart  to  remember  the  opening  of  the  institute,  the 
ardor  of  his  boys.  He  asked  a  few  questions  about  indi- 
viduals, but  soon  gave  it  up  as  hopeless.  The  squire  neither 
knew  nor  cared. 

''AndMrs.  Darcy?" 

"  My  sister  had  tea  in  her  thirtieth  summer-house  last  Sun- 
day," remarketfthe  squire,  grimly.  **She  wished  me  to  com- 
municate the  fact  to  you  and  Mrs.  Elsmere.  Also,  that  the 
worst  novel  of  the  century  will  be  out  in  a  fortnight,  and  she 
trusts  to  you  to  see  it  well  reviewed  in  all  the  leading  journals." 

Robert  laughed,  but  it  was  not  very  easy  to  laugh.  There 
was  a  sort  of  ghastly  under-current  in  the  squire's  sarcasms 
that  effectually  deprived  them  of  anything  mirthful. 
And  your  book?" 

*'Is  in  abeyance.   I  shall  bequeath  you  the  manuscript  m 
my  will,  to  do  what  you  like  with." 
Squire  1" 


688 


BOBERf  ELSMEBB!. 


Quite  true!  If  you  had  stayed,  I  should  have  finished  it, 
I  suppose.  But  after  a  certain  age  the  toil  of  spinning  cob- 
webs entirely  out  of  his  own  brain  becomes  too  much  for  a 
man." 

It  was  the  first  thing  of  the  sort  that  iron  mouth  had  ever 
said  to  him.   Elsmere  was  painfully  touched. 

You  must  not— you  shaU  not  give  it  up,"  he  urged.  Pub- 
lish the  first  part  aJone,  and  ask  me  for, any  help  you  please." 

The  squire  shook  his  head. 

*'Let  it  be.  Your  paper  in  the  *  Nineteenth  Century' 
showed  me  that  the  best  thing  I  can  do  is  to  hand  on  my  ma- 
terials to  you.  Though  I  am  not  sure  that  when  you  have  got 
them  you  will  make  the  best  use  of  them.  You  and  Grey  be- 
tween you  call  yourselves  Liberals,  and  imagine  yourselves 
retormers,  and  all  the  while  you  are  doing  nothing  but  playing 
into  the  hands  of  the  Blacks.  All  this  theistic  philosophy  of 
yours  only  means  so  much  grist  to  their  miU  in  the  end." 

''They  don't  see  it  in  that  light  tnemselves,"  said  Eobert, 
smihng. 

''No,"  returned  the  squire,  ''because  most  men  are  puzzle- 
heads.  Why,"  he  added,  looking  darkly  at  Robert,  while  the 
great  head  fell  forward  on  his  breast  in  the  familiar  Murewell 
attitude,  "  why  can't  you  do  your  work  and  let  the  preaching 
alone?" 

"Because,"  said  Eobert,  "the  preaching  seems  to  me  my 
work.  There  is  the  great  difference  between  us,  squire.  You 
look  upon  knowledge  as  an  end  in  itself.  It  may  be  so.  But 
to  me  knowledge  has  always  been  valuable  first  and  foremost 
for  its*bearing  on  life." 

"Fatal  twist  that,"  returned  the  squire,  harshly.  "Yes,  I 
know;  it  was  always  in  you.  Well,  are  you  happy?  does  this 
new  crusade  of  yours  give  you  pleasure?" 

"  Happiness,"  replied  Robert,  leaning  against  the  chimney- 
piece,  and  speaking  in  alow  voice,  "is  always  relative.  No 
one  knows  it  better  than  you.   Life  is  full  of  oppositions.  But 
the  work  takes  my  whole  heart  and  ail  my  energies." 
I  The  squire  looked  at  him  in  disapproving  silence  for  awhile. 

"You  will  bury  your  life  in  it  miserably,"  he  said  at  last; 
"it  will  be  a  toil  of  Sisyphus  leaving  no  trace  behind  it; 
whereas  such  a  book  as  you  might  write,  if  you  gave  your 
life  to  it,  might  live  and  work,  and  harry  the  enemy  when  y&\ 
are  gone," 


BOBERT  ELSMERB.  569 

Robert  forbore  the  natural  retort. 

The  squire  went  round  his  Ubrary,  making  remarks,  with  all 
the  caustic  shrewdness  natural  to  him,  on  the  new  volumes  that 
Eobert  had  acquired  since  their  walks  and  talks  together. 

The  Germans,"  he  said  at  last,  putting  back  a  book  into  the 
shelves  with  a  new  accent  of  distaste  and  weariness,  ^*are  be- 
ginning to  founder  in  the  sea  of  their  own  learning.  Some- 
times I  think  I  will  read  no  more  German.  It  is  a  nation  of 
learned  fools,  none  of  whom  ever  sees  an  inch  beyond  his  own 
professorial  nose." 

Then  he  stayed  to  luncheon,  and  Catherine,  moved  by  many 
feelings— perhaps  in  subtle  striving  against  her  own  passionate 
sense  of  wrong  at  this  man's  hands— was  kind  to  him,  and 
talked  and  smiled,  indeed,  so  much  that  the  squire  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  took  individual  notice  ot  her,  and  as  he  parted 
with  Elsmere  in  the  hall  made  the  remark  that  Mrs.  Elsmere 
seemed  to  like  London,  to  which  Eobert,  busy  in  an  opportune 
search  for  his  guest's  coat,  made  no  reply. 

When  are  you  coming  to  Mure  well?"  the  squire  said  to 
him,  abruptly,  as  he  stood  at  the  door  muflaed  up  as  though  it 
were  December.  There  are  a  good  many  points  in  that  last 
article  you  want  talking  to  about.  Come  next  mont^i  with 
Mrs.  Elsmere. 

Robert  drew  a  long  breath,  inspired  by  many  feelings. 
I  will  come,  but  not  yet.   I  must  get  broken  in  here  more 
thoroughly  first.   Murewell  touches  me  too  deeply,  and  my 
wife.    You  are  going  abroad  in  tlie  summer,  you  say.   Let  me 
come  to  you  in  tne  autumn." 

The  squire  said  nothing,  and  went  his  way,  leaning  heavily 
on  his  stick,  across  the  square.  Robert  felt  himself  a  brute  to 
let  him  go,  and  almost  van  after  him. 

That  evening  Robert  was  disquieted  by  the  receipt  of  a  note 
from  a  young  telle w  of  St.  Anselm's,  an  intimate  friend  and 
occasional  secretary  of  Grey.  Grey,  the  writer  said,  had  re- 
ceived Robert's  last  letter,  was  deeply  interested  in  lais  account 
ot  his  work,  and  begged  him  to  write  again.  He  would  have 
written,  but  that  he  was  himself  in  the  doctor^s  hands,  suffering 
from  various  ills,  probably  connected  with  an  attack  of  malarial 
fever  which  had  befallen  him  in  Rome  the  year  before. 

Catherine  found  him  poring  over  the  letter,  and,  as  it  seemed 
to  her,  oppressed  by  an  anxiety  out  of  all  proportion  to  the 
news  itself. 


590 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


**They  are  not  really  troubled,  I  think,"  she  said,  kneeling 
down  beside  him,  and  laying  her  cheek  against  his.  He  will 
soon  get  over  it,  EobeH." 

But,  alayj  I  this  mood,  the  tender  characteristic  mood  of  the 
old  Catherine,  was  becoming  rarer  and  rarer  with  her.  As  the 
spring  expaynded,  as  the  sun  and  the»leaves  came  back,  poor 
Catherine's  temper  had  only  grown  more  wintry  and  more 
rigid.  Her  life  was  full  of  moments  of  acute  suffering.  Never, 
for  instance,  did  she  forget  the  evening  of  Eobert's  lecture  to 
the  club.  All  the  time  he  was  away  she  had  sat  brooding  by 
herself  in  the  drawing-room,  divining  with  a  bitter  clairvoy- 
ance all  that  scene  in  which  he  was  taking  part,  her  being 
shaken  with  a  tempest  of  misery  and  repulsion.  And  together 
with  that  torturing  image  of  a  glaring  room  in  which  her  hus- 
band, once  Christ's  loyal  minister,  was  employing  all  his  powers 
of  mind  and  speech  to  make  it  easier  for  ignorant  men  to  desert 
and  fight  against  the  Lord  who  bought  them,  there  mingled  a 
hundred  memories  of  her  father  which  were  now  her  constant 
companions.  In  proportion  as  Eobert  and  she  became  more 
divided,  her  dead  father  resumed  a  ghostly  hold  upon  her. 
There  were  days  when  she  went  about  rigid  and  silent,  in  real- 
ity Hving  altogether  in  the  past,  among  the  gray  farms,  the 
crags,  and  the  stony  ways  of  the  mountains. 

At  such  times  her  mind  would  be  full  of.  pictures  of  her 
father's  ministrations— his  talks  with  the  shepherds  on  the  hills, 
with  the  women  at  their  doors,  his  pale  dreamer's  face  beside 
some  wild  death-bed,  shining  with  the  Divine  message,  the 
''visions"  which  to  her  awe-struck  childish  sense  would  often 
seem  to  hold  him  in  their  silent  walks  among  the  misty  hills. 

Robert,  taught  by  many  small  indications,  came  to  recognize 
these  states  of  feeling  in  her  with  a  dismal  clearness,  and  to 
shrink  more  and  more  sensitively  while  they  lasted  from  any 
collision  with  her.  He  kept  his  work,  his  friends,  his  engage- 
ments  to  himself,  talking  resolutely  of  other  things,  she  trying 
to  do  the  sa-me,  but  with  less  success,  as  her  nature  was  less 
pliant  than  his. 

Then  there  would.come  moments  when  the  inward  preoccu- 
pation would  give  way,  and  that  strong  need  of  loving,  which 
was,  after  all,  the  basis  of  Catherine's  character,  would  break 
hungrily  through,  an(3  the  wife  ot  their  early  married  days 
would  reappoar,  though  still  only  with  limitations.  A  certain 
nervous  physical  dread  of  any  approach  to  a  particular  range 


ROBERT  ELSMBRB. 


591 


of  subjects  with  her  husband  was  always  present  in  her.  Nay, 
through  all  these  months,  it  gradually  increased  in  morbid 
strength.  Shock  had  produced  it;  perhaps  shock  alone  could 
loosen  the  stifling  pressure  of  it.  But  still  every  now  and  then 
her  mood  was  brighter,  more  caressing,  and  the  area  of  com- 

,  mon  mundane  interests  seemed  suddenly  to  broaden  for  them. 

I  Robert  did  not  always  make  a  wise  use  of  these  happier  times ; 

'  he  was  incessantly  possessed  witli  his  old  idea  that  if  she  only 
would  allow  herself  some  very  ordinary  intercourse  with  his 
world,  her  mood  would  become  less  strained,  his  occupations 

.  and  his  friends  would  cease  to  be  such  bugbears  to  her,  and, 
for  his  comfort  and  hers,  she  might  ultimately  be  able  to  sym- 
pathize with  certain  sides  at  any  rate  of  his  work. 

So  again  and  again,  when  her  manner  no  longer  threw  him 
back  on  himself,  he  made  efforts  and  experiments.  But  he 
managed  them  far  less  cleverly  than  he  would  have  managed 
anybody  else's  affairs,  as  generally  happens.  For  instance,  at 
a  period  when  he  was  feeling  more  enthusiasm  than  usual  for 
his  colleague  Wardlaw,  and  when  Catherine  was  more  accessi- 
ble than  usual,  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  to  make  an  effort 
to  bring  them  together.  Brought  face  to  face,  each  must  recog- 
nize the  nobleness  of  the  other.  He  felt  boyishly  confident  of 
it.  So  he  made  it  a  point,  tenderly  but  insistently,  that  Cath- 
erine should  ask  Wardlaw  and  his  wife  to  come  and  see  them. 
And  Catherine,  driven  obscurely  by  a  longing  to  yield  in  some- 
thing, which  recurred,  and  often  terrified  herself,  yielded  in  this. 

The  Wardlaws,  who  in  general  never  went  into  society,  were 
asked  to  a  quiet  dinner  in  Bedford  Square,  and  came.  Then, 
of  course,  it  appeared  that  Robert,  with  the  idealist  blindness, 
had  forgotten  a  hundred  small  differences  of  temperament  and 
training  which  must  make  it  impossible  for  Catherine,  in  a  state 
of  tension,  to  see  the  hero  in  James  Wardlaw.  It  was  an  un- 
lucky dinner.  James  Wardlaw,  with  all  his  heroisms  and  vir- 
tues, had  long  ago  dropped  most  of  those  delicate  intuitions  and 
divinations,  which  make  the  charm  of  life  in  society,  along  the 
rough  paths  of  a  strenuous  philanthropy.  He  had  no  tact,  and, 
like^most  saints,  he  drew  a  certain  amount  of  inspiration  from 
a  contented  ignorance  of  his  neighbor's  point  of  view.  Also, 
he  was  not  a  man  who  made  much  of  women,  and  he  held 
strong  views  as  to  the  suboidination  of  wives.  It  never  oc- 
curred to  him  that  Robert  might  have  a  Dissenter  in  his  own 
household,  and  as,  in  spite  of  their  speculative  diff^rQUces,  he 


592 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


had  always  been  accustomed  to  talk  freely  with  Robert,  he  now 
talked  freely  to  Robert  plus  his  wife,  assuming,  as  every  good 
Comtist  does,  that  the  husband  is  the  wife's  pope.  ( 

Moreover,  a  solitary  eccentric  life,  far  from  the  society  of  iji 
his  equals,  had  developed  in  him  a  good  many  crude  Jacobin-  ^ 
isms.   His  experience  of  London  clergymen,  for  instance,  had 
not  been  particularly  favorable,  and  he  had  a  store  of  anecdotes  ^ 
on  the  subject  which  Robert  Had  heard  before,  but  which  now,  | 
repeated  in  Catherine's  presence,  seemed  to  have  lost  every  ^ 
shred  of  humor  they  once  possessed.   Poor  Elsmere  tried  with  | 
all  his  might  to  divert  the  stream,  but  it  showed  a  tormenting  ^ 
tendency  to  recur  to  the  same  channel.    And  meanwhile  the 
Httle  spectacled  wife,  dressed  in  a  high,  home-made  cashmere,  ^ 
sat  looking  at  her  husband  with  a  benevolent  and  smiling  ad- 
miration.  She  kept  all  her  eloquence  for  the  poor. 

After  dinner  things  grew  worse  Mrs.  Wardla w  had  recently 
presented  her  husband  with  a  third  infant,  and*the  ardent  pair 
had  taken  advantage  of  the  visit  to  London  of  an  eminent  I 
French  Comtist  to  have  it  baptized  with  full  Comtist  rites. 
Wardlaw  stood  astride  on  the  rug,  giving  the  assembled  com- 
pany a  minute  account  of  the  ceremony  observed,  while  his 
wife  threw  in  gentle  explanatory  interjections.  The  manner 
of  both  showed  a  certain  exasperating  confidence,  if  not  in  the 
active  sympathy,  at  least  in  the  impartial  curiosity  of  their 
audience,  and  in  the  importance  to  modern  religious  history  of  i 
the  incident  itself.  Catherine's  silence  grew  deeper  and  deeper ; 
the  conversation  fell  entirely  to  Robert.  At  last  Robert,  by 
main  force,  as  it  were,  got  Wardlaw  off  into  politics,  but  the 
new  Irish  Coercion  Bill  was  hardly  introduced  before  the  irre- 
pressible being  turned  to  Catherine,  and  said  to  her,  with  smil- 
ing obtuseness: 

"  I  don't  believe  I've  seen  you  at  one  of  your  husband's  Sun- 
day addresses  yet,  Mrs.  Elsmere?  And  it  isn't  so  far  from  this 
part  of  the  world  either." 

Catherine  slowly  raised  her  beautiful  large  eyes  upon  him. 
Robert,  looking  at  her  with  a  qualm,  saw  an  expression  he  was 
learning  to  dread  flash  across  the  face. 

I  have  my  Sunday-school  at  that  time,  Mr.  Wardlaw.  I  am 
a  Church  woman. " 

The  tone  had  a  touch  of  hauteur  Robert  had  hardly  ever 
heard  from  his  wife  before.  It  effectually  stopped  all  further 
conversation.   Wardlaw  fell  into  sUence^  reflecting  that  he  had 


been  a  fool.  His  wife,  with  a  timid  flush,  drew  out  her  knit- 
ting, and  stuck  to  it  for  the  twenty  minutes  that  remained. 
Catherine  immediately  did  her  best  to  talk,  to  be  pleasant;  but 
the  discomfort  of  the  little  party  was  too  great.  It  broke  up  at 
ten,  and  the  Wardlaws  departed. 

Catherine  stood  on  the  rug  while  Elsmere  went  with  his 
guests  to  the  door,  waiting  restlessly  for  her  husband's  return, 
Kobert,  however,  came  back  to  £er,  tired,  wounded,  and  out 
of  spirits,  feeling  that  the  attempt  had  been  wholly  unsuccess- 
ful, and  shrinking  from  any  further  talk  about  it.  He  at  once 
sat  down  to  some  letters  for  the  late  post.  Catherine  lingered 
a  little,  watching  him,  longing  miserably,  like  any  girl  of 
eighteen,  to  throw  herself  on  his  neck  and  reproach  him  for 
their  unhappiness,  his  friends— she  knew  not  what !  He  all  the 
time  was  intimately  conscious  of  her  presence,  of  her  pale 
beauty,  which  now  at  twenty-seven,  in  spite  of  its  severity,  had 
a  subtler  finish  and  attraction  than  ever,  of  the  restless  little 
movements  so  unlike  herself,  which  she  giade  from  time  to  time. 
But  neither  spoke  except  upon  indifferent  things.  Once  more 
the  difficult  conditions  of  their  lives  seemed  too  obvious,  too  op- 
pressive. Both  were  ultimately  conquered  by  the  same  sore 
impulse  to  let  speech  alone. 

CHAPTER  XLII. 

And  after  this  little  scene,  through  the  busy  exciting  weeks 
of  the  season  which  followed,  Robert,  taxed  to  the  utmost  on 
all  sides,  yielded  to  the  impulse  of  silence  more  and  more. 

Society  was  another  difficulty  between  them.  Robert  dehght- 
ed  in  it  so  far  as  his  East  End  life  allowed  him  to  have  it.  No 
one  was  ever  more  ready  to  take  other  men  and  women  at  their 
own  valuation  than  he.  Nothing  was  so  easy  to  him  as 
to  believe  in  other  people's  goodness,  or  cleverness,  or  super- 
human achievement.  On  the  other  hand,  London  is  kind  tc 
such  men  as  Robert  Elsmere.  His  talk,  his  writing,  were  be- 
coming known  and  relished;  and  even  the  most  rigid  of  the  old 
school  found  it  difficult  to  be  angry  with  him.  His  knowl- 
edge of  the  poor  and  of  social  questions  attracted  the  men  of 
actions;  his  growing  historical  reputation  drew  the  attention 
of  the  men  of  thought.  Most  people  wished  to  know  him  and 
to  talk  to  him,  and  Catherine,  smiled  upon  for  his  sake,  and 
assumed  to  be  his  chief  disciple,  felt  herself  more  and  more  be- 
wildered and  antagonistic  as  the  season  rushed  on. 


594 


BOBEBT  ELSMEBK. 


For  what  pleasure  could  she  get  out  of  these  dinners  and 
these  evenings,  which  supplied  Eobert  with  so  much  intel- 
lectual stimulus?  With  her  all  the  moral  nerves  were  jarring 
and  out  of  tune.  At  any  time  Eichard  Leybum's  daughter 
would  have  found  it  hard  to  tolerate  a  society  where  every- 
thing is  an  open  question  and  all  confessions  of  faith  are  more 
or  less  bad  taste.  But  now,  when  there  was  no  refuge  to  fall 
back  upon  in  Robert's  arms,  no  certainty  of  his  s^^pathy— 
nay,  a  certainty  that,  however  tender  and  pitiful  he  might  be, 
he  would  still  think  her  wrong  and  mistaken!  She  went  here 
and  there  obediently  because  he  wishedi;  but  her  youth 
seemed  to  be  ebbing,  the  old  Murewell  gayety  entirely  left  her, 
and  people  in  general  wondered  why  Elsmere  should  have 
married  a  wife  older  than  himself,  and  apparently  so  unsuited 
to  him  in  temperament. 

Especially  was  she  tried  at  Mme.  de  Netteville's.  For  Rob- 
ert's sake  she  tried  for  a  time  to  put  aside  her  first  impression 
and  to  bear  Mme.  de  Netteville's  evenings— little  dreaming, 
poor  thing,  all  the  tim«  that  Mme.  de  Netteville  thought  her 
presence  at  the  famous  ^'Fridays  "  an  incubus  only  to  be  put 
up  with  because  the  husband  was  becoming  socially  an  indis- 
pensable. 

But  after  two  or  three  Fridays  Catherine's  endurance  failed 
her.  On  the  last  occasion  she  found  herself,  late  in  the  even- 
ing, hemmed  in  behind  Mme.  de  Netteville  and  a  distinguished 
African  explorer,  who  was  the  lion  of  the  evening.  Eugenie 
de  Netteville  had  forgotten  her  silent  neighbor,  and  presently, 
with  some  biting  Kttle  phrase  or  other,  she  asked  the  great  man 
his  opinion  on  a  burning  topic  of  the  day,  the  results  of  Church 
Missions  in  Africa.  The  great  man  laughed,  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  ran  lightly  through  a  string  of  stories  in  which 
both  missionaries  and  converts  played  parts  which  were  either 
grotesque  or  worse.  Mme.  de  Netteville  thought  the  stories 
amusing,  and  as  one  ceased  she  provoked  another,  her  black 
eyes  full  of  a  dry  laughter,  her  white  hand  lazily  plying  her 
great  ostrich  fan. 

Suddenly  a  figure  rose  behind  them. 

^'Oh,  Mrs.  Elsmere!"  said  Mme.  de  Netteville,  starting,  and 
then  coolly  recovering  herself.  I  had  no  idea  you  were  there 
all  alone.  I  am  afraid  om*  conversation  has  been  disagreeable 
to  you.   I  am  afraid  you  are  a  friend  of  missions !" 

And  her  glance,  turning  from  Catherine  to  her  companion. 


BOBERT  ELSMEBE2. 


595 


made  a  little  malicious  signal  to  him  which  only  he  detected, 
as  though  bidding  him  take  note  of  a  curiosity. 

Yes,  I  care  for  them,  I  wish  for  their  success,"  said  Cath- 
erine, one  hand,  which  trembled  sHghtly,  resting  on  the  table 
beside  her,  her  great  gray  eyes  fixed  on  Mme.  de  Netteville. 
"  No  Christian  has  any  right  to  do  otherwise." 

Poor,  brave,  goaded  soul !  She  had  a  vague  idea  of  bearing 
testimony  "  as  her  father  would  have  borne  it  in  like  circum- 
stances.  But  she  turned  very  pale.    Even  to  her  the  word 

Christian"  sounded  like  a  bombshell  in  that  room.  The 
great  traveller  looked  up  astounded.  He  saw  a  tall  woman  in 
white  with  a  beautiful  head,  a  delicate  face,  a  something  inde- 
scribably noble  and  unusual  in  her  whole  look  and  attitude. 
She  looked  like  a  Quaker  prophetess  —  like  Dinah  Morris  in 
society— like— but  his  comparisons  failed  him.  How  did  such 
a  being  come  there  f  He  was  amazed;  but  he  was  a  man  of 
taste,  and  Mme.  de  Netteville  caught  a  certain  sesthetic  appro- 
bation in  his  look. 

She  arose,  her  expression  hard  and  bright  as  usual. 

''May  one  Christian  pronounce  for  all!"  she  said,  with  a 
scornful  affectation  of  meekness.  ''Mrs.  Elsmere,  please  find 
some  chair  more  comfortable  than  that  ottoman ;  and,  Mr.  Ans- 
dale,  will  you  come  and  be  introduced  to  Lady  Aubrey?" 

After  her  guests  had  gone,  Mme.  de  Netteville  came  back  to 
the  fire,  flushed  and  frowning.  It  seemed  to  her  that  in  that 
strange  little  encounter  she  had  suffered,  and  she  never  forgot 
or  forgave  the  smallest  social  discomfiture. 

"  Can  I  put  up  with  that  again?"  she  asked  herself,  with  a 
contemptuous  hardening  of  the  lip.  "  I  suppose  I  must  if  he 
can  not  be  got  without  her.  But  I  have  an  instinct  that  it  is 
over— that  she  will  not  appear  here  again.  Daudet  might  make 
use  of  her.  I  can't.  What  a  specimen !  A  boy  and  girl  match, 
I  suppose.  What  else  could  have  induced  that  poor  wretch  to 
cut  his  throat  in  such  fashion?   He,  of  all  men !" 

And  Eugenie  de  Netteville  stood  thinking  not,  apparently, 
of  the  puritanical  wife;  the  dangerous  softness  which  over- 
spread the  face  could  have  had  no  connection  with  Catherine. 

Mme.  de  Netteville's  instinct  was  just.    Catherine  Elsmere 
never  appeared  again  in  her  drawing-room. 
J    But,  with  a  Httle  sad  confession  of  her  own  invincible  distaste, 
"the  wife  pressed  the  husband  to  go  without  her.    She  urged  it 
at  a  bitter  moment,  when  it  was  clear  to  her  that  their  lives 


696 


must  of  necessity,  even  in  outward  matters,  be  more  separate 
than  before.  Elsmere  resisted  for  a  time ;  then,  lured  one  even- 
ing toward  the  end  of  February  by  the  prospect  conveyed  in  a 
note  from  Mme.  de  Netteville,  wherein  Catherine  was  men- 
tioned in  the  most  scrupulously  civil  terms,  of  meeting  one  of 
the  most  eminent  of  French  critics,  he  went,  and  thencefor- 
ward went  often.  He  had,  so  far,  no  particular  liking  for  the 
hostess;  he  hated  some  of  her  habitues;  but  there  was  no  doubt 
that  in  some  ways  she  made  an  admirableholder  of  asalon,  and 
that  round  about  her  there  was  a  subtle  mixture  of  elements,  a 
liberty  of  discussion  and  comment,  to  be  found  nowhere  else. 
And  how  bracing  and  refreshing  was  that  free  play  of  equal 
mind  to  the  man  weary  sometimes  of  his  leader's  role  and 
wear^  of  himseK ! 

As  to  the  woman,  his  social  naivete,  which  was  extraordinary, 
but  in  a  man  of  his  type  most  natural,  made  him  accept  her  ex- 
actly as  he  found  her.  If  there  were  two  or  three  people  in 
Paris  or  London  who  knew  or  suspected  incidents  of  Mme.  de 
Netteville's  young  married  days  which  made  her  reception  at 
some  of  the  strictest  English  houses  a  matter  of  cynical  amuse- 
ment to  them,  not  the  remotest  inkling  of  their  knowledge  was 
ever  Hkely  to  reach  Elsmere.  He  was  not  a  man  who  attracted 
scandals.  Nor  was  it  anybody's  interest  to  spread  them.  Mme. 
de  Netteville's  position  in  London  society  was  obviously  excel- 
lent. If  she  had  peculiarities  of  manner  and  speech,  they  were 
easily  supposed  to  be  French.  Meanwhile  she  was  undeniably 
rich  and  distinguished,  and  gifted  with  a  most  remarkable  power 
of  protecting  herself  and  her  neighbors  from  boredom.  At  the 
same  time,  though  Elsmere  was,  in  truth,  more  interested  in 
her  friends  than  in  her,  he  could  not  possibly  be  insensible  to 
the  consideration  shown  for  him  in  her  drawing-room.  Mme. 
de  Netteville  allowed  herself  plenty  of  jests  with  her  intimates 
as  to  the  young  reformer's  social  simplicity,  his  dreams,  his 
optimisms.  But  those  intimates  were  the  first  to  notice  that  as 
soon  as  he  entered  the  room  those  optimisms  of  his  were  adroitly 
respected.  She  had  various  delicate  contrivances  for  giving  him 
the  lead ;  she  exercised  a  kind  of  surveillance  over  tne  topics  in- 
troduced ;  or  in  conversation  with  him  she  would  play  that  most 
seductive  part  of  the  cynic  shamed  out  of  cynicism  by  the 
neighborhood  of  the  enthusiast. 

Presently  she  began  to  claim  a  practical  interest  in  his  El- 
good  Street  work.  Her  offers  w^re  made  with  a  curious  mixt- 


EGBERT  ELSMEBE. 


^97 


ure  of  sympathy  and  mockery.  Elsmere  could  not  take  her 
seriously.  But  neither  could  he  refuse  to  accept  her  money,  if 
she  chose  to  spend  it  on  a  library  for  Elgood  Street,  or  to  con- 
sult with  her  about  the  choice  of  books.  This  whim  of  hers 
created  a  certain  friendly  bond  between  them  which  was  not 
present  before.  And  on  Elsmere's  side  it  was  strengthened 
when,  one  evening,  in  a  corner  of  her  mner  drawing-room, 
Mme.  de  Netteville  suddenly,  but  very  quietly,  told  him  the 
story  of  her  life— her  English  youth,  her  elderly  French  hus- 
band, the  death  of  her  only  child,  and  her  flight  as  a  young 
widow  to  England  during  the  war  of  1870.  She  told  the  story 
of  the  child,  as  it  seemed  to  Elsmere,  with  a  deliberate  avoid- 
ance of  emotion,  nay,  even  with  a  certain  hardness.  But  it 
touched  him  profoundly.  And  everything  else  that  she  said^ 
though  she  professed  no  great  regret  for  her  husband,  or  for  the 
break-up  of  her  French  life,  and  though  everything  was  reticent 
and  measured,  deepened  the  impression  of  a  real  f  orlornness  be- 
hind all  the  outward  brilliance  and  social  importance.  He  be- 
gan to  feel  a  deep  and  kindly  pity  for  her,  coupled  with  an 
earnest  wish  that  he  could  help  her  to  make  her  life  more 
adequate  and  satisfying.  And  all  this  he  showed  in  the  look  of 
his  frank  gray  eyes,  in  the  cordial  grasp  of  the  hand  with 
which  he  said  good-bye  to  her. 

Mme.  de  Netteville's  gaze  followed  him  out  of  the  room — 
the  tall,  boyish  figure,  the  nobly  carried  head.  The  riddle  of  her 
flushed  cheek  and  sparkling  eye  was  hard  to  read.  But  there 
were  one  or  two  persons  living  who  could  have  read  it,  and  who 
could  have  warned  you  that  the  true  story  of  Eugenie  de  Nette- 
ville's life  was  written,  not  in  her  literary  studies  or  her  social 
triumphs,  but  in  various  recurrent  outbreaks  of  unbridled  im- 
pulse— the  secret,  and  in  one  or  two  cases  the  shameful  land- 
marks of  her  past.  And,  as  persons  of  experience,  they  could 
also  have  warned  you  that  the  cold  intriguer,  always  mistress  of 
herself,  only  exists  in  fiction,  and  that  a  certain  poisoned  and 
fevered  interest  in  the  religious  leader,  the  young  and  pious 
priest,  as  such,  is  common  enough  among  the  corrupter  wom- 
en of  all  societies. 

Toward  the  end  of  May  she  asked  Elsmere  to  dine  ^^en  petit 
comite,  a  gentlemen's  dinner — except  for  my  cousin.  Lady  Au- 
brey Willert" — ^to  meet  an  eminent  Liberal  Cathohc,  a  friend 
of  Montalembert's  youth. 

It  was  a  week  or  two  after  the  failure  of  the  Wardlaw  experi- 


698 


KOBEET  ELSMERB. 


ment.  Do  what  each  would,  the  sore  silence  between  the  hus- 
band and  wife  was  growing,  was  swallowing  up  more  of  life. 

''Shall  I  go,  Catherine?"  he  asked,  handing  her  the  note. 

"  It  would  interest  you,"  she  said,  gently,  giving  it  back  to 
him  scrupulously,  as  though  she  had  nothing  to  do  with  it. 

He  knelt  down  before  her,  and  put  his  arms  round  her,  look- 
ing at  her  with  eyes  which  had  a  dumb  and  yet  fiery  appeal 
v/ritten  in  them.  His  heart  was  hungry  for  that  old  clinging 
dependence,  that  willing  weakness  of  love  her  youth  had 
yielded  him  so  gladly,  instead  of  this  silent  strength  of  antago- 
nism. The  memory  of  her  Murewell  self  flashed  miserably 
through  him  as  he  knelt  there,  of  her  delicate  penitence  toward 
him  after  her  first  sight  of  Newcome,  of  their  night  walks  dur- 
ing the  Mile  End  epidemic.  Did  he  hold  now  in  his  arms  only 
the  ghost  and  shadow  of  that  Murewell  Catherine? 

She  must  have  read  the  reproach,  the  yearning  of  his  look, 
for  she  gaye  a  little  shiver,  as  though  bracing  herself  with  a 
kind  of  agony  to  resist. 

''Let  me  go,  Eobert!"  she  said,  gently,  kissing  him  on  the 
forehead  and  drawing  back.  "I  hear  Mary  caUing,  and  nurse 
is  out." 

The  days  went  on,  and  the  date  of  Mme.  de  Netteville's  din- 
ner-party had  come  round.  About  seven  o'clock  that  evening 
Catherine  sat  with  the  child  in  the  drawing-room,  expecting 
Eobert.  He  had  gone  off  early  in  the  afternoon  to  the  East 
End  with  Hugh  Flaxman  to  take  part  in  a  committee  of  work- 
men organized  for  the  establishment  of  a  choral  union  in  E  , 

the  scheme  of  which  had  been  Flaxman's  chief  contribution  so 
far  to  the  Elgood  Street  undertaking. 

It  seemed  to  her  as  she  sat  there  working,  the  windows  open 
on  to  the  bit  of  garden,  where  the  trees  were  already  withered 
and  begrimed,  that  the  air  without  and  her  heart  within  were 
alike  stifling  and  heavy  with  storm.  Something  must  put  an 
end  to  this  oppression,  this  misery !  She  did  not  know  herself. 
Her  whole  inner  being  seemed  to  her  lessened  and  degraded  by 
this  silent  struggle,  this  fever  of  the  soul,  which  made  impossi- 
ble all  those  serenities  and  sweetnesses  of  thought  in  which  her 
nature  had  always  lived  of  old.  The  fight  into  which  fate  had 
forced  her  w^as  destroying  her.  She  was  drooping  Hke  a  plant 
cut  off  from  all  that  nourishes  its  life. 

And  yet  she  never  conceived  it  possible  that  she  should  r^ 
linquish  that  fight.   Nay,  at  times  there  sprung  up  in  her  now 


KOBERl?  ELSMERE. 


599 


a  dangerous  and  despairing  foresight  of  even  worse  things  in 
store.  In  the  middle  of  her  suffering  she  already  began  to  feel 
at  moments  the  ascetic's  terrible  sense  of  compensation.  What, 
after  all,  is  the  Christian  life  but  warfare  ?  * '  J  came  not  to  send 
peace,  but  a  sword! " 

Yes,  in  these  June  days  Elsmere's  happiness  was  perhaps 
nearer  wreck  than  it  had  ever  been.  All  strong  natures  grow 
restless  under  such  a  pressure  as  was  now  weighing  on  Cath- 
erine.  Shock  and  outburst  become  inevitable. 

So  she  sat  alone  this  hot  afternoon,  haunted  by  presentiments, 
by  vague  terror  for  herself  and  him ;  while  the  child  tottered 
about  her,  cooing,  shouting,  kissing,  and  all  impulsively,  with 
a  ceaseless  energy,  like  her  father. 

The  outer  door  opened,  and  she  heard  Eobert's  step,  and  ap- 
parently Mr.  Flaxman's  also.  There  was  a  hurried,  subdued 
word  or  two  in  the  hall,  and  the  two  entered  the  room  where 
she  was  sitting. 

Robert  came,  pressing  back  the  hair  from  his  eyes  with  a 
gesture  which  with  him  was  the  invariable  accompaniment  of 
mental  trouble.   Catherine  sprung  up. 

Robert,  you  look  so  tired!  and  how  late  you  are!''  Then 
as  she  came  nearer  to  liim :    And  your  cosit—torn— blood  /  " 

There  is  nothing  wrong  with  me,  dear,"  he  said,  hastily, 
taking  her  hands — nothing!  But  it  has  been  an  awful  after- 
noon. Flaxman  will  tell  you.  I  must  go  to  this  place,  I  sup- 
pose, though  I  hate  the  thought  of  it !  Flaxman,  will  you  tell 
her  ail  about  it?"  And,  loosing  his  hold,  he  went  heavily  out 
of  the  room  and  upstairs. 

*'Ithas  been  an  accident,"  said  Flaxman,  gently,  coming 
forward,  to  one  of  the  men  of  his  class.  May  we  sit  down, 
Mrs.  Elsmere?  Your  husband  and  I  have  gone  through  a  good 
deal  these  last  two  hours." 

He  sat  down  with  a  long  breath,  evidently  trying  to  regain 
his  ordinary  even  manner.  His  clothes,  too,  were  covered  with 
dust,  and  his  hand  shook.  Catherine  stood  before  him  in  con- 
sternation, while  a  nurse  came  for  the  child. 

**We  had  just  begun  our  committee  at  four  o'clock,"  he  said 
at  last,  though  only  about  half  of  the  men  had  arrived,  when 
there  was  a  great  shouting  and  commotion  outside,  and  a  man 
rushed  in  calling  for  Elsmere.  We  ran  out,  found  a  great 
crowd,  a  huge  brewer's  dray  standing  in  the  street,  and  a  man 


600 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


run  over.  Your  husbsmd  pushed  his  way  in.  I  followed,  and, 
to  my  horror,  I  found  him  kneeling  by  Charles  Richards  !" 

''Charles  Richards  ?"  Catherine  repeated,  vacantly. 

Flaxman  looked  Up  at  her,  as  though  puzzled ;  then  a  flash 
of  astonishment  passed  over  his  face. 

''Elsmere  has  never  told  you  of  Charles  Richards,  the  little 
gas-fitter,  who  has  been  his  right  hand  for  the  past  three 
months  ?" 

''No— never,"  she  said,  slowly. 

Again  he  looked  astonished;  then  he  went  on,  sadly:  "All 
this  spring  he  has  been  your  husband's  shadow— I  never  saw 
such  devotion.  We  found  him  lying  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 
He  had  only  just  left  work,  a  man  said  who  had  been  with  him, 
and  was  running  to  the  meeting.  He  sHpped  and  fell,  crossing 
the  street,  which  was  muddy  from  last  night's  rain.  The  dray 
swimg  round  the  corner — the  driver  was  drunk  or  careless— and 
they  went  right  over  him.  One  foot  was  a  sickening  sight. 
Your  husband  and  I  luckily  knew  how  to  lift  him  for  the  best. 
We  sent  off  for  doctors.  His  home  was  in  the  next  street,  as 
it  happened— nearer  than  any  hospital ;  so  we  carried  him  there. 
The  neigbors  were  round  the  door." 

Then  he  stopped  himseK. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  the  whole  story  ?"  he  said,  kindly ;  "it  has 
been  a  tPtgedy  !  I  won't  give  you  details  if  you  had  rather  not." 

"Oh,  no  1"  she  said,  hurriedly;  "no— tell  me." 

And  she  forgot  to  feel  any  wonder  that  Flaxman,  in  his  chiv- 
alry, should  treat  her  as  though  she  were  a  girl  with  nerves. 

' '  Well,  it  was  the  surroundings  that  were  so  ghastly.  When 
we  got  to  the  house  an  old  woman  rushed  at  me—'  His  wife's 
in  there,  but  ye'll  not  find  her  in  her  senses;  she's  been  at  it 
from  eight  o'clock  this  morning.  We've  took  the  children 
away.'  I  didn't  know  what  she  meant  exactly  till  we  got  into 
the  little  front  room.  There,  such  a  spectacle  !  A  young 
woman  on  a  chair  by  the  fire  sleeping  heavily,  dead  drunk ;  the 
breakfast  things  on  the  table,  the  sun  blazing  in  on  the  dust 
and  the  dirt,  and  on  the  woman's  face.  I  wanted  to  carry  him 
into  the  room  on  the  other  side— he^was  unconscious;  but  a 
doctor  had  come  up  with  us,  and  made  us  put  him  down  on  a 
bed  there  was  in  the  comer.  Then  we  got  some  brandy  and 
poured  it  down.  The  doctoF  examined  him,  looked  at  his  foot, 
threw  something  over  it.  'Nothing  to  be  done,'  he  said — *  in- 
ternal injuries— he  can't  live  half  an  hour.'  The  next  minute 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


601 


the  poor  fellow  opened  his  eyes.  They  had  pulled  away  the 
bed  from  the  wall.  Your  husband  was  on  the  further  side,  kneel- 
ing. When  he  opened  his  eyes^^learly  the  first  thing  he  saw  was 
his  wife.  He  half  sprang  up— Elsmere  caught  him —and  gave 
a  horrible  cry — ^indescribably  horrible.  'At  it  again,  at  it 
again.  My  GodP  Then  he  fell  back  fainting.  They  got  the 
wife  out  of  the  room  between  them — a  perfect  log — you  could 
hear  her  heavy  breathing  from  the  kitchen  opposite.  We  gave 
him  more  brandy  and  he  came  to  again.  He  looked  up  in  you 
husband's  face.  *She  hasn't  broke  out  for  two  months,'  he 
said,  so  piteously,  *two  months— and  now— I'm  done— I'm 
done— and  she'll  just  go  straight  to  the  devil !'  And  it  comes 
out,  so  the  neighbors  told  us,  that  for  two  years  or  more  he  had 
been  patiently  trying  to  reclaim  this  woman,  without  a  word 
of  complaint  to  anybody,  though  his  life  must  have  been  a 
dog's  life.  And  now,  on  his  death-bed,  what  seemed  to  be 
breaking  his  heart  was,  not  that  he  was  dying,  but  that  his 
task  was  snatched  from  him  !" 

Flaxman  paused,  and  looked  away  out  of  window.  He  told 
his  story  with  diflBlculty. 

Your  husband  tried  to  comfort  him— promised  that  the 
wife  and  children  should  be  his  special  care,  that  everything^ 
that  could  be  done  to  save  and  protect  them  should  be  done. 
And  the  poor  little  fellow  looked  up  at  him,  with  the  tears  run- 
ning down  his  cheeks,  and— and  —blessed  him.  *  I  cafdd  about 
nothing,'  he  said,  '  when  you  came.  You've  been— God— to  me 
—I've  seen  Him— in  you.'  Then  he  asked  us  to  say  something. 
Your  husband  said  verse  after  verse  of  the  Psalms,  of  the  Gos 
pels,  of  St.  Paul.  His  eyes  grew  filmy,  but  he  seemed  every 
now  and  then  to  struggle  back  to  life,  and  as  soon  as  he  caught 
Elsmere's  face  his  look  lightened.  Toward  the  last  he  said 
something  we  none  of  us  caught;  but  your  husband  thought  it 
was^  line  from  Emily  Bronte's  ^Hymn,'  which  he  said  to 
them  last  Sunday  in  lecture." 

He  looked  up  at  her  interrogatively,  but  there  was  no  re- 
sponse in  her  face. 

**I  asked  him  about  it,"  the  speaker  went  on,  **as  we  came 
home.  He  said  Grey  of  St.  Anselm's  once  quoted  it  to  him, 
and  he  has  had  a  love  for  it  ever  since." 

**Did  he  die  while  you  were  there?"  asked  Catherine,  pres- 
ently, after  a  silence.  Her  voice  was  dull'  and  quiet,  He 
thought  b^r  a  strange  woman. 


602 


BOBEBT  ELSMEBB. 


"No,"  said  Flaxman,  almost  sharply;  **but  by  now  it  must 
be  over.  The  last  sign  of  consciousness  was  a  murmur  of  his 
children's  names.  They  brought  them  in,  but  his  hands  had 
to  be  guided  to  them.  A  few  minutes  after  it  seemed  to  me 
that  he  was  really  gone,  though  he  still  breathed.  The  doctor 
was  certain  there  would  be  no  more  consciousness.  We 
stayed  nearly  another  hour.  Then  his  brother  came,  and 
some  other  relations,  and  we  left  him.    Oh,  it  is  over  now!" 

Hugh  Flaxman  sat  looking  out  into  the  dingy  bit  of  London 
garden.  Penetrated  with  pity  as  he  was,  he  felt  the  presence 
of  Elsmere's  pale,  silent,  unsympathetic  wife  an  oppression. 
How  could  she  receive  such  a  story  in  such  a  way? 

The  door  opened  and  Robert  came  in  hurriedly. 
Good-night,  Catherine— he  has  told  you?" 

He  stood  by  her,  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  wistfully  looking 
at  her,  the  face  full  of  signs  of  what  he  had  gope  through. 

"  Yes,  it  was  terrible !"  she  said,  with  an  effort. 

His  face  fell.    He  kissed  her  on  the  forehead  and  went.away. 

When  he  was  gone,  Flaxman  suddenly  got  up  and  leaned 
against  the  open  French  window,  looking  keenly  down  on  his 
companion.    A  new  idea  had  stirred  in  him. 

And  presently,  after  more  talk  of  the  incident  of  the  after- 
noon, and  when  he  had  recovered  his  usual  manner,  he  slipped 
gradually  into  the  subject  of  his  own  experiences  in  North 

R  during  the  last  six  months.    He  assumed  all  through 

that  she  knew  as  much  as  there  was  to  know  of  Elsmere's 
work,  and  that  she  was  as  much  interested  as  the  normal  wife 
is  in  her  husband's  doings.  His  tact,  his  delicacy,  never  failed 
him  for  a  moment.  But  he  spoke  of  his  own  impressions,  of 
matters  within  his  personal  knowledge.  And  since  the  Easter 
sermon  he  had  been  much  on  Elsmere's  track;  he  had  been 
filled  with  curiosity  about  him. 

Catherine  sat  a  little  way  from  him,  her  blue  dress  lying  in 
long  folds  about  her,  her  head  bent,  her  long  fingers  crossed 
on  her  lap.  Sometimes  she  gave  him  a  startled  look,  sometimes 
she  shaded  her  eyes,  while  her  other  hand  played  silently  with 
her  watch-chain.  Flaxman,  watching  her  closely,  however 
little  he  might  seem  to  do  so,  was  struck  by  her  austere  and 
delicate  beauty  as  he  had  never  been  before. 

She  hardly  spoke  all  through,  but  he  felt  that  she  listened 
without  resistance,  nay,  at  least  that  she  listened  with  a  kind 
of  hunger.   He  went  from  stoiy  to  story,  from  scene  to  scene, 


nOBERT  ELBMES!B, 


603 


without  any  excitement,  in  his  most  ordinary  maimer,  making 
his  reserves  now  and  then,  expressing  his  own  opinion  when  it 
occurred  to  him,  and  not  always  favorably.  But  gradually 
the  whole  picture  emerged,  began  to  live  before  them.  At  last 
he  hurriedly  looked  at  his  watch. 

What  a  time  I  have  kept  you  I  It  has  been  a  relief  to  talk 
to  you." 

You  have  not  had  dinner!"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him 
with  a  sudden  nervous  bewilderment  which  touched  him  and 
subtly  changed  his  impression  of  her. 

*  *  No  matter.   I  will  get  some  at  home.   Good-night !" 

When  he  was  gone  she  carried  the  child  up  to  bed;  her  sup- 
per was  brought  to  her  solitary  in  the  dining-room ;  and  after- 
ward in  the  drawing-iflbm,  where  a  soft  twilight  was  fading 
into  a  soft  and  starlighted  night,  she  mechanically  brought 
out  some  work  for  Mary,  and  sat  bending  over  it  by  the  win- 
dow. After  about  an  hour  she  looked  up  straight  before  her, 
threw  her  work  down,  and  slipped  on  to  the  floor,  her  head 
resting  on  the  chair. 

The  shock,  the  storm,  had  come.  There  for  hours  lay  Cath- 
erine Elsmere  weeping  her  heart  away,  wrestling  with  herself, 
with  memory,  with  God.  It  was  the  greatest  moral  upheaval 
she  had  ever  known— greater  even  than  that  which  had  con- 
vulsed her  life  at  Murewell. 

CHAPTER  XLIII. 

Egbert,  tired  and  sick  at  heart,  felt  himself  in  no  mood  this 
evening  for  a  dinner-party  in  which  conversation  would  be 
treated  more  or  less  as  a  fine  art.  Liberal  Catholicism  had 
lost  its  charm;  his  sympathetic  interest  in  Montalembert,  La- 
cordaire,  Lamennais,  had  to  be  quickened,  pumped  up  again  as 
it  were,  by  great  efforts,  which  were  constantly  relaxed  within 
him  as  he  sped  westward  by  the  recurrent  memory  of  that 
miserable  room,  the  group  of  men,  the  bleeding  hand,  the 
white  dying  face. 

In  Mme.  de  Netteville's  drawing-room  he  found  a  small 
number  of  people  assembled.  M.  de  Querouelle,  a  middle 
sized,  round-headed  old  gentleman  of  a  familiar  French  type; 
Lady  Aubrey,  thinner,  more  lath-like  than  ever,  clad  in  some 
sumptuous  mingling  of  dark  red  and  silver;  Lord  Rupert, 
beaming  under  the  recent  introduction  of  a  Land  Purchase 
Bill  for  Ireland,  by  which  he  saw  his  way  at  last  to  wash  his 


g04  ROBERT  BLSMBRE. 

hands  of  a  beastly  set  of  tenants;"  Mr.  "^^harncliffe,  a  young 
private  secretary  with  a  waxed  mustache,  six  feet  of  height, 
and  a  general  air  of  superlativeness  v/hich  demanded  and  se- 
cured attention;  a  famous  journalist,  whose  smihng  self-re 
pressive  look  assured  you  that  he  carried  with  him  the  secrets 
of  several  empires;  and  one  Sir  John  Headlam,  a  little  black- 
haired  Jewish-looking  man  with  a  limp— an  ex-colonial  gov- 
ernor, who  had  made  himself  accepted  in  London  as  an  amus- 
ing fellow,  but  who  was  at  least  as  much  dishked  by  one  half 
of  society  as  he  was  popular  with  the  other. 

Purely  for  talk,  you  see,  not  for  showl"  said  Mme.  de 
Netteville  to  Robert,  with  a  little  smiling  nod  round  her  circle 
as  they  stood  waiting  for  the  commencement  of  dinner. 

I  shall  hardly  do  my  part,"  he  saiJ^  with  a  little  sigh.  I 
have  just  come  from  a  very  different  scene." 
She  looked  at  him  with  inquiring  eyes. 

terrible  accident  in  the  East  End,"  he  said,  briefly. 
We  won't  talk  of  it.   I  only  mention  it  to  propitiate  you  be- 
forehand.  Those  things  are  not  forgotten  at  once." 

She  said  no  more,  but,  seeing  that  he  was  indeed  out  of  heart, 
physically  and  mentally,  she  showed  the  most  subtle  considera- 
tion for  him  at  dinner.  M.  de  Querouelle  was  made  to  talk. 
His  hostess  wound  him  up  and  set  him  going,  tune  after  tune. 
He  played  them  all,  and,  by  dint  of  long  practice,  to  perfec- 
tion, in  the  French  way.  A  visit  of  his  youth  to  the  island  grave 
of  Chateaubriand;  his  early  memories,  as  a  poetical  aspirant, 
of  the  magnificent  flatteries  by  which  Victor  Hugo  made  him- 
self the  god  of  young  romantic  Paris ;  his  talks  with  Montalem- 
bert  in  the  days  of  UAvenir;  his  memories  of  Lamennais's 
sombre  figure,  of  Maurice  de  Guerin's  feverish  ethereal  charm; 
his  account  of  the  opposition  salons  under  the  Empire— they 
had  all  been  elaborated  in  the  course  of  years,  till  every  word 
fitted  and  each  point  led  to  the  next  with  the  inevitablenoss" 
of  true  art.  Robert,  at  first  sUent  and  distrait,  found  it  impos- 
sible after  awhile  not  to  listen  with  interest.  He  admired  the 
skill,  too,  of  Mme.  de  Netteville's  second  in  the  duet,  the  finish, 
the  alternate  sparkle  and  melancholy  of  it;  and  at  last  he  too 
was  drawn  in,  and  found  himself  listened  to  with  great  benevo- 
lence by  the  Frenchman,  who  had  been  informed  about  him, 
and  regarded  him  indulgently,  as  one  more  curious  specimen  of 
English  religious  provincialisms.  The  journalist,  Mr.  Addle- 
^one.  who  had  wou  a  European  reputation  for  wisdom  by  ^ 


BOBERT  ELSMERE. 


605 


great  scantiness  of  speech  in  society,  coupled  with  the  look  of 
Minerva's  owl,  attached  himself  to  them;  while  Lady  Aubrey, 
Sir  John  Headlam,  Lord  Rupert,  and  Mr.  Wharnclilfe  made  a 
noisier  and  more  dashing  party  at  the  other  end. 

"  Are  you  still  in  your  old  quarters,  Lady  Aubrey?"  asked 
Sir  John  Headlam,  turning  his  old  roguish  face  upon  her. 

That  house  of  Nell  Gwynne's,  wasn't  it,  in  Meade  Street?" 
Oh,  dear,  no!  We  could  only  get  it  up  to  May  this  year, 
and  then  they  made  us  turn  out  for  the  seascm,  for  the  first  time 
for  ten  years.  There  is  a  tiresome  young  heir  who  has  married 
a  wife  and  wants  to  live  in  it.  I  could  have  left  a  train  of  gun- 
powder and  a  slow  match  behind,  I  was  so  cross !" 

Ah— '  Reculer  pour  mieux  faire  sauterP''  said  Sir  John, 
mincing  out  his  pun  as  though  he  loved  it. 

''  Not  bad,  Sir  John,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  calmly,  ''  but 
you  have  way  to  make  up.  You  were  so  dull  the  last  time  you 
took  me  in  to  dinner,  that  positively—" 

"You  began  to  wonder  to  what  I  owed  my  paragraph  in  the 
'Societe  des  Londres,'"  he  rejoined,  smiling,  though  a  close 
observer  might  have  seen  an  angry  flash  in  his  little  eyes.  ' '  My 
dear  Lady  Aubrey,  it  was  simply  because  I  had  not  seen  you  for 
six  weeks.  My  education  had  been  neglected.  I  got  my  art  and 
my  literature  from  you.  The  last  time  but  one  we  met,  you 
gave  me  the  cream  of  three  new  French  novels  and  all  the  dra- 
matic scandal  of  the  period.  I  have  hved  on  it  for  weeks.  By 
the  way,  have  you  read  the  '  Princesse  de  ?' " 

He  looked  at  her  audaciously.  The  book  had  affronted  even 
Paris. 

''I  haven't,"  she  said,  adjusting  her  bracelets,  while  she 
flashed  a  rapier-glance  at  him,  ''but  if  I  had,  I  should  say 
precisely  the  same.  Lord  Rupert,  will  you  kindly  keep  Sir 
John  in  order?" 

Lord  Rupert  plunged  in  with  the  gallant  floundering  motion 
characteristic  of  him,  while  Mr.  Wharncliffe  followed  like  a 
modern  gun-boat  behind  a  three-decker.  That  young  man  was 
a  delusion.  The  casual  spectator,  to  borrow  a  famous  Cam- 
bridge mot,  invariably  assumed  that  all  "the  time  he  could 
spare  from  neglecting  his  duties  he  must  spend  in  adorning  his 
person."  Not  at  all!  The  tenue  of  a  dandy  was  never  more 
cleverly  used  to  mask  the  schemes  of  a  Disraeli  or  the  hard  am- 
bition of  a  Talleyrand  than  in  Master  Frederick  WhamcliiTe, 


BOBERT  ELSMEBE. 


■vrho  was  in  reality  going  up  the  ladder  hand  over  hand,  and 
meant  very  soon  to  be  on  the  top  rungs. 

It  was  a  curious  party,  typical  of  the  house,  and  of  a  certsiin 
stratum  of  London.  When,  every  now  and  then,  in  the  pauses 
of  their  own  conversation,  Elsmere  caught  something  of  the 
chatter  going  on  at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  or  when  the 
party  became  fused  into  one  for  awhile  under  the  genial  influ- 
ence of  a  good  story  or  the  exhilaration  of  a  personal  skirmish, 
the  whole  scene— the  dainty  oval  room,  the  hghts,  the  servants, 
the  exquisite  fruit  and  flowers,  the  gleaming  silver,  the  tapes- 
tried walls — would  seem  to  him  for  an  instant  like  a  mirage,  a 
dream,  yet  with  something  glittering  and  arid  about  it  which  a 
dream  never  has.  / 

The  hard  self-confidence  of  these  people— did  it  belong  to  the 
same  world  a,s  that  humbling,  that  heavenly  self-abandonment 
which  had  shone  on  him  that  afternoon  from  Charles  Richard's 
begrimed  and  blood-stained  face?  ^'Blessed  are  the  poor  in 
spirit he  said  to  himself  once,  with  an  inward  groan.  Why 
am  I  here?   Why  am  I  not  at  home  with  Catherine?" 

But  Mme.  de  Netteville  was  pleasant  to  him.  He  had  never 
seen  her  so  womanly,  never  felt  more  grateful  for  her  deUcate 
social  skiU.  As  she  talked  to  him,  or  to  the  Frenchman,  of 
literature,  or  politics,  or  famous  folk,  flashing  her  beautiful 
eyes  from  one  to  the  other.  Sir  John  Headlam  would,  every 
now  and  then,  turn  his  odd  puckered^face  observantly  toward 
the  further  end  of  the  table. 

By  Jove !"  he  said,  afterward  to  Whamcliffe  as  they  walked 
away  from  the  door  together,  *'she  was  mimitable  tonight; 
she  has  more  roles  than  Desforets  1"  Sir  John  and  his  hostess 
were  very  old  friends. 

Upstairs  smoking  began.  Lady  Aubrey  and  Mme.  de  Nette- 
ville joining  in.  M.  de  Querouelle,  having  talked  the  best  of 
his  repertoire  at  dinner,  was  now  inclined  for  amusement,  and 
had  discovered  that  Lady  Aubrey  could  amuse  him,  and  was, 
moreover,  une  belle  personne,  Mme.  de  Netteville  was  obhged 
to  give  some  time  to  Lord  Rupert.  The  other  men  stood  chat- 
ting politics  and  the  latest  news,  till  Robert,  conscious  of  a 
complete  failure  of  social  energy,  began  to  look  at  his  watch. 
Instantly  Mme.  de  Netteville  glided  up  to  him. 

**Mr.  Elsmere,  you  have  talked  no  business  to  me,  and  I 
must  know  how  my  affairs  in  Elgood  Street  are  getting  on. 
Come  into  my  little  writing-room. And  she  led  him  into  a 


liOBa.ilT  ELSMEBE. 


607 


Hny  paneled  room  at  the  far  end  of  the  drawing-room  and  shut 
oif  from  it  by  a  heavy  cuilain,  which  she  now  left  half  drawn. 

''The  latest?"  said  Fred  Wharncliiie  to  Lady  Aubrey,  raising 
fiis  eyebrows  with  the  sliglitest  motion  of  the  head  toward  the 
writing-room. 

" I  suppose  so,"  she  said,  indifferently;  "she  is  East-Ending 
for  a  change.  We  all  do  it  nowadays.  It  is  like  Dizzy's  young 
man  who  'Hked  bad  wine,  he  was  so  bored  with  good.'  " 

Meanwhile  Mme.  de  Netteville  was  leaning  against  the  open 
window  of  the  fantastic  little  room,  with  Eobert  beside  her. 

"You  look  as  if  you  had  had  a  strain,"  she  said  to  him, 
abruptly,  after  they  had  talked  business  for  a  few  minutes. 
"  What  has  been  the  matter?" 

He  told  her  Eichard's  story  very  shortly.  It  would  have 
been  impossible  to  him  to  give  more  than  the  dry  est  outline  of 
it  in  that  room.  His  companion  listened  gravely.  She  was 
an  epicure  in  all  things,  especially  in  moral  sensation,  and  she 
liked  his  moments  of  reserve  and  strong  self-control.  They 
made  his  general  expansiveness  more  distinguished. 

Presently  there  was  a  pause,  which  she  broke  by  saying: 

"I  was  at  your  lecture  last  Sunday  —  you  didn't  see  me !" 

"Were  you?  Ah,  I  remember  a  person  in  black,  and  veiled, 
who  puzzled  me.  I  don't  think  we  want  you  there,  Madame 
de  Netteville." 

His  look  was  pleasant,  but  his  tone  had  some  decision  in  it. 

"Why  not?  Is  it  only  the  artisans  who  have  souls?  A  re- 
former should  refuse  no  one." 

''You  have  your  own  opportunities,"  he  said,  quietly;  "I 
think  the  men  prefer  to  have  it  to  themselves  for  the  present. 
Some  of  them  are 'dreadfully  in  earnest." 

"Oh,  I  don't  pretend  to  be  in^ earnest,"  she  said,  with  a 
little  wave  of  her  hand;  "or,  at  any  rate,  I  know  better  than 
to  talk  of  earnestness  to  youy 

"Why  to  me?"  he  asked,  smiling. 

"  Oh,  because  you  and  your  like  have  your  fixed  ideas  of  the 
upx)er  class  and  the  lower.  One  social'  type  fills  up  your  hori- 
zon. You  are  not  interested  in  any  other,  and,  indeed,  you 
know  nothing  of  any  other." 

She  looked  at  him  defiantly.  Everything  about  her  to-nigtt 
was  splendid  and  regal — her  dress  of  black  and  white  brocade, 
the  diamonds  at  her  throat,  the  carriage  of  her  head,  nay,  the 
marks  of  experience  and  living  on  the  dark,  subtle  face. 


608 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


Perhaps  not,"  he  rephed;  *'it  is  enough  k)r  one  life  to  try 
and  make  out  where  the  EngHsh  working  class  is  tending  to." 

You  are  quite  wrong,  utterly  wrong.  The  man  who  keeps 
his  eye  only  on  the  lower  class  will  achieve  nothing.  What 
can  the  idealist  do  without  the  men  of  action— the  men  who 
can  take  his  beliefs  and  make  them  enter  by  violence  into  ex 
isting  institutions?  And  the  men  ol  action  are  to  be  found 
with  ^^5." 

It  hardly  looks  just  now  as  if  the  upper  class  was  to  go  on 
enjoying  a  monopoly  of  them,"  he  said,  smiling. 

^'Then  appearances  are  deceptive.  The  populace  supphes 
mass  and  weight— nothing  else.  What  you  want  is  to  touch 
the  leaders,  the  men  and  women  whose  voices  carry,  and  then 
your  populace  would  follow  hard  enough.  For  instance" — 
and  she  dropped  her  aggressive  tone  and  spoke  with  a  smiling 
kindness— ^'  come  down  next  Saturday  to  my  little  Surrey  cot- 
tage ;  you  shall  see  some  of  these  men  and  women  there,  and  I 
will  make  you  confess  when  you  go  away  that  you  have  pro- 
fited your  workman  more  by  deserting  them  than  by  staying 
with  them.   Will  you  come?" 

"  My  Sundays  are  too  precious  to  me  just  now,  Madame  de 
Netteville.  Besides,  my  firm  conviction  is  that  the  upper  class 
can  produce  a  Brook  Farm,  but  nothing  more.  The  religious 
movement  of  the  future  will  want  a  vast  effusion  of  feeling  and 
passion  to  carry  it  into  action,  and  feeling  and  passion  are  only 
to  be  generated  in  sufficient  volume  among  the  masses,  where 
the  vested  interests  of  all  kinds  are  less  tremendous.  You 
upper-class  folk  have  your  part,  of  course.  Woe  betide  you  if 
you  shirk  it — ^but — " 

"Oh,  let  us  leave  it  alone,"  she  said,  with  a  little  shrug. 

I  know  you  would  give  us  all  the  work  and  refuse  us  all  the 
profits.  We  are  to  starve  for  your  workman,  to  give  him  our 
hearts  and  purses  and  everything  we  have,  not  that  we  may 
hoodwink  him— which  might  be  worth  doing— but  that  he  may 
rule  us.    It  is  too  much !" 

''Very  well,"  he  said,  dryly,  his  color  rising.  ''Very  well, 
let  it  be  too  much." 

And  dropping  his  lounging  attitude,  he  stood  erect,  and  she 
saw  that  he  meant  to  be  going.  Her  look  swept  over  him  from 
head  to  foot — over  the  worn  face  with  its  look  of  sensitive  re- 
finement and  spiritual  force,  the  active  frame,  the  delicate  but 
most  characteristic  hand.   Never  had  any  man  so  attracted 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


609 


her  for  years ;  never  had  she  found  it  so  diflicult  to  gain  a  hold. 
Eugenie  de  Netteville,  poseuse,  schemer,  woman  of  the  world 
that  she  was,  was  losing  command  of  herself. 

'^What  4id  you  really  mean  by  ^  worldliness '  and  the 
^|world '  in  your  lecture  last  Sunday  ?"  she  asked  him,  suddenly, 
with  a  little  accent  of  scorn.  thought  your  diatribes  ab- 
surd. What  you  religious  people  call  the  '  world '  is  really  only 
the  average  opinion  of  sensible  people  which  neither  you  nor 
your  kind  could  do  without  for  a  day.'' 

He  smiled,  half  amused  by  her  provocative  tone,  and  de- 
fended himself  not  very  seriously.  But  she  threw  all  her 
strength  into  the  argument,  and  he  forgot  that  he  had  meant 
to  go  at  once.  When  she  chose  she  could  talk  admirably,  and 
she  chose  now.  She  had  the  most  aggressive  ways  of  attack- 
ing, and  then,  in  the  same  breath,  the  most  subtle  and  softening 
ways  of  yielding  and,  as  it  were,  of  asking  pardon.  Directly 
her  antagonist  turned  upon  her  he  found  himself  disarmed 
he  knew  not  how.  The  disputant  disappeared,  and  he  felt  the 
woman,  restless,  melancholy,  sympathetic,  hungry  for  friend- 
ship and  esteem,  yet  too  proud  to  make  any  direct  bid  for 
either.   It  was  impossible  not  to  be  interested  and  touched. 

Such  at  least  was  the  woman  whom  Eobert  Elsmere  felt. 
Whether  in  his  hours  of  intimacy  with  her,  twelve  months 
before,  young  Alfred  Evershed  had  received  the  same  impres- 
sion may  be  doubted.  In  all  things  Eugenie  de  Netteville  was 
an  artist. 

Suddenly  the  curtain  dividing  them  from  the  larger  drawing- 
room  was  drawn  back,  and  Sir  John  Headlam  stood  in  the 
door-way.  fie  had  the  glittering,  amused  eyes  of  a  malicious 
child  as  he  looked  at  them. 

Very  sorry,  madame,"  he  began,  in  his  high  cracked  voice, 

but  Wharncliffe  and  I  are  off  to  the  New  Club  to  see  Des- 
Eorets.    They  have  got  her  there  to-night." 

**Go,"  she  said,  waving  her  hand  to  him;  '^I  don't  envy 
you.   She  is  not  what  she  was." 

*^No,  there  is  only  one  person,"  he  said,  bowing  with  gro- 
tesque little  airs  of  gallantry,  ''for  whom  time  stands  still." 

Mme.  de  Netteville  looked  at  him  with  smiling,  half-con- 
temptuous serenity.  He  bowed  again,  this  time  with  ironical 
emphasis,  and  disappeared. 

Perhaps  I  had  better  go  back  and  send  them  olf,"  she  said, 
rising.      But  you  and  I  have  not  had  our  talk  out  yet." 


610 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


She  led  the  way  into  the  drawing-room.  Lady  Aubrey  waa 
lying  back  on  the  velvet  sofa,  a  little  green  paroquet  that  was 
accustomed  to  wander  tamely  about  the  room  perching  on  her 
hand.  She  was  holding  the  field  against  Lord  Rupert  and  Mr. 
Addlestone  in  a  three-cornered  duel  of  wits,  while  M.  de 
Querouelle  sat  by,  his  plump  hands  on  his  knees,  applauding. 

They  all  rose  as  their  hostess  came  in. 

''My  dear,"  said  Lady  Aubrey,  **it  is  disgracefully  early, 
but  my  country  before  pleasure.  It  is  the  Foreign  Office  ta 
night,  and  since  James  took  office  I  can't  with  decency  absent 
myself.  I  had  rather  be  a  scullery-maid  than  a  minister's  wife. 
Lord  Rupert,  I  will  take  you  on  if  you  want  a  lift.'' 

She  touched  Mme.  de  Netteville's  cheek  with  her  lips,  nod- 
ding to  the  other  men  present,  and  went  out,  her  fair  stag-hke 
head  well  in  the  air,  chaffing"  Lord  Rupeii),  who  obediently 
followed  her,  performing  marvellous  feats  of  agility  in  his  de- 
sire to  keep  out  of  the  way  of  the  superb  train  sweeping  behind 
her.  It  always  seemed  as  if  Lady  Aubrey  could  have  had  nc 
childhood,  as  if  she  must  always  have  had  just  that  voice  and 
those  eyes.  Tears  she  could  never  have  shed,  not  even  as  a 
baby  over  a  broken  toy.  Besides,  at  no  period  of  her  life  could 
she  have  looked  upon  a  lost  possession  as  anything  else  than 
the  opportunity  for  a  new  one. 

The  other  men  took  their  departure  for  one  reason  or  another. 
It  was  not  late,  but  London  was  in  full  swing,  and  M.  de  Que- 
rouelle  talked  with  gusto  of  four  "At  homes  "  still  to  be  grap- 
pled  with. 

As  she  dismissed  Mr.  Whamchffe,  Robert  too  held  out  his 
hand. 

No,"  she  said,  with  a  quick impetuousness,  no;  I  want  my 
talk  out.  It  is  barely  haM  past  ten,  and  neither  of  us  wants  to 
be  racing  about  London  to-night." 

Elsmere  had  always  a  certain  lack  of  social  decision,  and  he 
lingered  rather  reluctantly— for  another  ten  minutes,  as  he  sup- 
posed. 

*  She  threw  herself  into  a  low  chair.  The  windows  were  open 
to  the  back  of  the  house,  and  the  roar  of  Piccadilly  and  Sloane 
Street  came  borne  in  upon  the  warm  night  air.  Her  superb  dark 
head  stood  out  against  a  stand  of  yellow  lilies  close  behind  her, 
and  the  little  paroquet,  bright  with  aU  the  colors  of  the  tropics, 
perched  now  on  her  knee,  now  on  the  back  of  her  chair,  touched 
every  now  and  then  by  quick,  unsteady  fingers. 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


611 


Then  an  incident  followed  which  Elsmere  remembered  to  his 
dying  day  with  shame  and  humiliation. 

|In  ten  minutes  from  the  time  of  their  being  left  alone  a  woman 
who  was  five  years  his  senior  had  made  him  what  was  practi- 
cally a  confession  of  love— had  given  him  to  understand  that 
she  knew  what  were  the  relations  between  himself  and  his  wife 
—and  had  implored  him  with  the  quick  breath  of  an  inde- 
scribable excitement  to  see  what  a  woman's  sympathy  and  a 
woman's  uniqu,e  devotion  could  do  for  the  causes  he  had  at 
heart. 

The  truth  broke  upon  Elsmere  very  slowly,  awakening  in 
him,  when  at  last  it  was  unmistakable,  a  swift  agony  of  repul- 
sion, which  his  most  friendly  biographer  can  only  regard  with 
a  kind  of  grim  satisfaction.  For  after  all  there  is  an  amount 
of  innocence  and  absent-mindedness  in  matters  of  daily  human 
life,  which  is  not  only  niaiserie,  but  comes  very  near  to  moral 
wrong.  In  this  crowded  world  a  man  has  no  business  to  walk 
about  with  his  eyes  always  on  the  stars.  His  stumbles  may 
have  too  many  consequences.  A  harsh  but  a  salutary  truth. 
If  Elsmere  needed  it,  it  was  bitterly  taught  him  during  a  terri- 
ble half  hour.  When  the  half-coherent  enigmatical  sentences, 
to  w[>ich  he  listened  at  first  with  a  perplexed  surprise,  began 
graa dally  to  define  themselves;  when  he  found  a  woman  roused 
and  tragically  beautiful  between  him  and  escape ;  when  no  de- 
termination on  his  part  not  to  understand ;  when  nothing  he 
could  say  availed  to  protect  her  from  herself;  when  they  were 
at  last  face  to«face  with  a  confession  and  an  appeal  which  were 
a  disgrace  to  both— then  at  last  Elsmere  paid  '4n  one  minute 
glad  life's  arrears  "--the  natural  penalty  of  an  optimism,  a 
boundless  faith  in  human  nature,  with  which  life,  as  we  know 
it,  is  inconsistent. 

How  he  met  the  softness,  the  grace,  the  seduction  of  a  woman 
who  was  an  expert  in  ail  the  arts  of  fascination  he  never  knew. 
In  memory  afterward  it  was  all  a  ghostly  mirage  to  him 
The  low  voice,  the  splendid  dress,  the  scented  room  came  back 
to  him,  and  a  confused  memory  of  his  own  futile  struggle  to 
ward  off  what  she  was  bent  on  saying— little  else.  He  had  been 
maladroit,  he  thought,  had  lost  his  presence  of  mind.  Any  man 
of  the  world  of  his  acquaintance,  he  believed,  trampling  on  him- 
self,  would  have  done  better. 

But  when  the  softness  and  the  grace  were  all  lost  in  smart 
humiliation,  when  the  Mme,  de  Netteville  of  ordinary  life  dis' 


612 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


appeared,  and  something  took  her  place  which  was  Uke  a  coar&e 
and  malignant  underself  suddenly  brought  into  the  light  of  day 
—from  that  point  onward,  in  after  days,  he  remembered  it  all. 

.  .  .  I  know,"  cried  Eugenie  de  Netteville  at  last,  stand- 
ing at  bay  before  him,  her  hands  locked  before  her,  her  white 
lips  quivering,  when  her  cup  of  shame  was  full,  and  her  one 
impulse  left  was  to  strike  the  man  who  had  humiliated  her— 
''I  know  that  you  and  your  puritanical  wife  are  miserable— 
miserable.  What  is  the  use  of  denying  facts  that  all  the  world 
can  see,  that  you  have  taken  pains,"  and  she  laid  a  fierce,  de- 
liberate emphasis  on  each  word,  "all  the  world  shall  see?  There 
—let  your  wife's  ignorance  and  bigotry,  and  your  own  obvious 
relation  to  her,  be  my  excuse,  if  I  wanted  any;  but,"  and  she 
shrugged  her  white  shoulders  passionately,  ''I  want  none.  I 
am  not  responsible  to  your  petty  codes.  Nature  and  feehng  are 
enough  for  me.  I  saw  you  wanting  sympathy  and  affection—" 
My  wife!"  cried  Robert,  hearing  nothing  but  that  one  word. 
And  then,  his  glance  sweeping  over  the  woman  before  him,  he 
made  a  stern  step  forward. 

Let  me  go,  Madame  de  Netteville,  let  me  go,  or  I  shall 
forget  that  you  are  a  woman  and  I  a  man,  and  that  in  some 
way  I  can  not  understand  my  own  blindness  and  folly—" 

"Must  have  led  to  this  most  undesirable  scene,"  she  said, 
^th  mocking  suddenness,  throwing  herself,  however,  effectu^ 
ally  in  his  way.  Then  a  change  came  over  her,  and  erect, 
ghastly  white,  with  frowning  brow  and  shaking  limbs,  a  baffled 
and  smarting  woman  from  whom  every  restraint  had  fallen 
away^  let  loose  upon  him  a  torrent'of  gall  and  bitterness  which 
he  could  not  have  cut  short  without  actual  violence. 

He  stood  proudly  enduring  it,  waiting  for  the  moment  when 
what  seemed  to  him  an  outbreak  of  mania  should  have  spent 
itself.  But  suddenly  he  caught  Catherine's  name  coupled  with 
some  contemptuous  epithet  or  other,  and  his  self-control  failed 
him.  With  flashing  eyes  he  went  close  up  to  her  and  took  her 
wrists  in  a  grip  of  iron. 

"You  shall  not,"  he  said,  beside  himself,  '^you  shall  not! 
What  have  I  done— what  has  she  done— that  you  should  allow 
yourself  such  words?   My  poor  wife !" 

A  passionate  flood  of  self -reproachful  love  was  on  his  lips. 
He  choked  it  back.  It  was  a  desecration  that  her  name  should 
be  mentioned  in  that  room.   But  he  dropped  the  hand  he  held, 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


613 


The  fierceness  died  out  of  his  eyes.  His  companion  stood  be- 
side  him  panting,  breathless,  afraid. 

Thank  God,"  he  said,  slowly,  ''thank  God  for  yourself  and 
me  that  I  love  my  wife !  I  am  not  worthy  of  he^  -  doubly  un- 
worthy, since  it  has  been  possible  for  any  h  iman  being  to 
suspect  for  one  instant  that  I  was  ungsateful  for  the  blessing 
of  her  love,  that  I  could  ever  forgiet  and  dishonor  her!  But 
worthy  or  not—  No!— no  matter!  Madame  de  Netteville, 
let  me  go,  and  forget  that  such  a  person  exists." 

She  looked  at  him  steadily  for  a  moment,  at  the  stern  man- 
liness of  the  face  which  seemed  in  this  half  hour  to  have  grown 
older,  at  the  attitude  with  its  mingled  dignity  and  appeal.  In 
that  second  she  realized  what  she  had  done  and  what  she  had 
forfeited;  she  measured  the  gulf  between  herself  and  the  man 
before  her.  But  she  did  not  flinch.  Still  holding  him,  as  it 
were,  with  menacing,  defiant  eyes,  she  moved  aside,  she  waved 
her  hand  with  a  contemptuous  gesture  of  dismissal.  He  bowed, 
passed  her,  and  the  dor  shut. 

For  nearly  an  hour  afterward  Elsmere  wandered  bhndly  and 
aimlessly  through  the  darkness  and  silence  of  the  park. 

The  sensitive  optimist  nature  was  all  unhinged,  felt  itself 
wrestling  in  the  grip  of  dark  implacable  things,  upheld  by  a 
single  thread  above  that  moral  abyss  which  yaw-ns  beneath  us 
all,  into  which  the  individual  Hfe  sinks  so  easily  to  ruin  and 
nothingness.  At  such  moments  a  man  realizes  within  himself, 
within  the  circle  of  consciousness,  the  germs  of  all  things 
hideous  and  vile.  "Save  for  the  grace  of  God,''  he  says  to 
himself,  shuddering,  "  save  only  for  the  grace  of  God—" 

Contempt  for  himself,  loathing  for  life  and  its  possibilities, 
as  he  had  just  beheld  them ;  moral  tumult,  pity,  remorse,  a 
stinging  self-reproach— all  these  things  wrestled  within  him. 
What,  preach  to  others,  and  stumble  himself  into  such  mire  as 
this?  Talk  loudly  of  love  and  faith,  and  make  it  possible  all 
the  time  that  a  fellow  human  creature  should  think  you  capa- 
ble at  a  pinch  of  the  worst  treason  against  both? 

Elsmere  dived  to  the  very  depths  of  his  own  soul  that  night. 
Was  it  all  the  natural  consequence  of  a  loosened  bond,  of  a 
wretched  relaxation  of  effort— a  wretched  acquiescence  in 
something  second  best?  Had  love  been  cooling?  Had  it  simply 
ceased  to  take  the  trouble  love  must  take  to  maintain  itself? 
Ana  had  this  horror  been  the  subtle  inevitable  Nemesis? 


6U 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


All  at  once,  under  the  trees  of  the  park,  Elsmere  stopped 
for  a  moment  in  the  darkness,  and  bared  his  head,  with  the 
passionate  reverential  action  of  a  devotee  before  his  saint.  The 
lurid  image  which  had  been  pursuing  him  gave  way,  and  in  its 
place  came  the  image  of  a  new-made  mother,  her  child  close 
within  her  sheltering  arm.  Ah!  it  was  all  plain  to  him  now. 
The  moral  tempest  had  done*its  work. 

One  task  of  all  tasks  had  been  set  him  from  the  beginning — 
to  keep  his  wife's  love !  If  she  had  sUpped  away  from  him,  to 
the  injury  and  moral  lessening  of  both,  on  his  cowardice,  on 
his  clumsiness,  be  the  ])lame !  Above  all,  on  liis  fatal  power  of 
absorbing  himself  in  a  hundred  outside  interests,  controversy, 
literature,  society.  Even  his  work  seemed  to  have  lost  half  its 
sacredness.  If  there  be  a  canker  at  the  root,  no  matter  how 
large  the  show  of  leaf  and  blossom  overhead,  there  is  but  the 
more  to  wither !  Of  what  worth  is  any  success,  but  that  which 
is  grounded  deep  on  the  rock  of  personal  love  and  duty? 

Oh!  let  him  go  back  to  her!— wrestle  with  her,  open  his 
heart  again,  try  new  ways,  make  new  concessions.  How  faint 
the  sense  of  her  trial  has  been  growing  within  him  of  late!  hers 
which  had  once  been  more  terrible  to  him  than  his  own !  He 
feels  the  special  temptations  of  his  own  nature ;  he  throws  him- 
self, humbled,  convicted,  at  her  feet.  The  woman,  the  scene 
he  has  left,  is  effaced,  blotted  out  by  the  natural  intense  reac- 
tion of  remorseful  love. 

So  he  sped  homeward  s.t  last  through  the  noise  of  Oxford 
Street,  seeing,  hearing  nothing.  -  He  opened  his  own  door,  and 
let  himself  into  the  dim,  silent  house.  How  the  moment  re- 
called to  him  that  other  supreme  moment  of  his  life  at  Mure- 
well!  No  light  in  the  drawing-room.  He  went  upstairs  and 
softly  turned  the  handle  of  her  room  door. 

Inside  the  room  seemed  to  him  nearly  dark.  But  the  window 
was  wide  open.  The  free,^  loosely  growing  branches  of  the 
plane-trees  made  a  dark,  delicate  net-work  against  the  lumi- 
nous blue  of  the  night.  \  cool  air  came  to  him  laden  with  an 
almost  rural  scent  of  earth  and  leaves.  By  the  window  sat  a 
white,  motionless  figure.  As  he  Closed  the  door  it  rose  and 
walked  toward  him  without  a  word.  Instinctively  Eobert  felt 
that  something  unknown  to  him  had  been  passing  here.  He 
paused  breathless,  expectant. 

She  came  to  him.  She  linked  her  cold  trembling  fingers 
round  his  neck. 


KOBERT  ELSMERE. 


615 


*'Eobert,  I  have  been  waiting  so  long— it  was  so  late!  1 
thought  "—and  she  choked  down  a  sob — perhaps  something 
has  happened  to  him,  we  are  separated  forever,  and  I  shall 
never  be  able  to  tell  him.  Eobert,  Mr.  Flaxman  talked  to  me; 
he  opened  my  eyes;  I  have  been, so  cruel  to  you,  so  hard!  I 
have  broken  my  vow.    I  don't  deserve  it ;  but — Robert ! — " 

She  had  spoken  with  extraordinary  self-command  till  the  last 
word,  which  fell  into  a  smothered  cry  for  pardon.  Catherine 
Elsemere  had  very  little  of  the  soft  clingingness  which  makes 
the  charm  of  a  certain  type  of  woman.  Each  phrase  she  had 
spoken  had  seemed  to  take  with  it  a  piece  of  her  life.  She 
trembled  and  tottered  in  her  husband's  arms. 

He  bent  over  her  with  haif-articulate  words  of  amazement, 
of  passion.  He  led  her  to  her  chair,  and,  kneeling  before  her, 
he  tried,  so  far  as  the  emotion  of  both  would  let  him,  to  make 
her  realize  what  was  in  his  ovm  heart,  the  penitence  and  long- 
ing which  had  winged  his  return  to  her.  Without  a  mention 
of  Mme.  de  Nettevilie's  name,  indeed !  That  horror  she  should 
never  know.  But  it  was  to  it,  as  he  held  his  wife,  he  owed  his 
poignant  sense  of  something  half  jeopardized  and  wholly  re- 
covered; it  was  that  consciousness  in  the  background  of  his 
mind,  ignorant  of  it  as  Catherine  was  then  and  always,  which 
gave  the  peculiar  epoch-making  force  to  this  sacred  and  critical 
hour  of  their  Kves.  But  she  would  hear  nothing  of  his  self- 
blame— nothing.   She  put  her  hand  across  his  lips. 

have  seen  things  as  they  are,  Robert,"  she  said,  very 
simply;  while  I  have  been  sitting  here,  and  down-stairs, 
after  Mr.  Flaxman  left  me.  You  were  right— I  would  not  un- 
derstand. A'nd,  in  a  sense,  I  shall  never  understand.  I  can 
not  change, "  and  her  voice  broke  into  piteousness.  '  *  My  Lord 
is  my  Lord  always;  but  he  is  yours,  too.  Oh,  I  know  it,  say 
what  3^ou  will !  That  is  what  has  been  hidden  from  me ;  that  is 
what  my  trouble  has  taught  me;  the  powerles5;ness,  the  worth- 
lessness,  of  words.  It  is  the  spirit  that  quicJceneth.  I  should 
never  have  felt  it  so  but  for  this  fiery  furnace  of  pain.  But 
I  have  been  wandering  in  strange  places,  through  strange 
thoughts.  God  has  not  one  language,  but  many.  I  have  dared 
to  think  He  had  but  one,  the  one  I  knew^  I  have  dared  "—and 
she  faltered— ^' to  condemn  your  faith  as  no  faith.  Oh!  I  lay 
there  so  long  in  the  dark  down-stairs,  seeing  you  by  that  bed; 
I  heard  your  voice,  I  crept  to  your  side.  Jesus  was  there,  too. 
Ah,  He  was— He  was!  Leave  me  that  comfort!  What  are 


616 


BOBEBt  ELSMEEE. 


you  saying?  Wrong— you?  Unkind?  Your  wife  knows  noth- 
ing of  it.  Oh,  did  you  think  when  you  came  in  just  now  be- 
fore dinner  that  I  didn't  care,  that  I  had  a  heart  of  stone?  Did 
you  think  I  had  broken  my  solemn  promise,  my  vow  to  you 
that  day  at  Mure  well?  So  I  have,  a  hundred  times  over.  I 
made  it  in  ignorance;  I  had  not  counted  the  costr— how  could 
I?  It  was;all  so  new,  so  strange.  I  dare  not  make  it  again,  the 
will  is  so  weak,  circumstances  so  strong.  But  oh  I  take  me 
back  into  your  Hfe !  Hold  me  there  I  Remind  me  always  of 
this  night ;  convict  me  out  of  my  own  mouth !  But  I  will  learn 
my  lesson ;  I  w^ill  learn  to  hear  the  two  voices,  the  voice  that 
speaks  to  you  and  the  voice  that  speaks  to  me— I  must.  It  is 
all  plain  to  me  now.   It  has  been  appointed  me." 

Then  she  broke  down  into  a  kind  of  weariness,  and  fell  back  in 
her  chair,  her  delicate  fingers  straying  with  soft,  childish  touch 
over  his  hair. 

' '  But  I  am  past  thinking.  Let  us  bury  it  all  and  begin  again. 
Words  are  nothing." 

Strange  ending  to  a  day  of  torture  I  As  she  towered  above 
him  in  the  dimness,  white  and  pure  and  drooping,  her  force  of 
nature  all  dissolved,  lost  in  this  new  heavenly  weakness  of 
love,  he  thought  of  the  man  who  passed  through  the  place  of 
sin,  and  the  place  of  expiation,  and  saw  at  last  the  rosy  hght 
creeping  along  the  east,  caught  the  white,  moving  figures,  and 
that  sweet  distant  melody  rising  through  the  luminous  air. 
which  announced  to  him  the  approach  of  Beatiice  and  the 
nearness  of  those  "shining  table-lands  whereof  our  God  him- 
self is  moon  and  sun."  For  eternal  life,  the  ideal  state  is  not 
something  future  and  distant.  Dante  knew  it  when  he  talked 
of  "quella  que  imparadisa  la  mm  raentay  Paradise  is  here, 
visible  and  tangible  by  mortal  eyes  and  hands,  whenever  self 
is  lost  in  loving,  whenever  the  narrow  limits  of  personality  are 
beaten  down  by  the  inrash  of  the  Divine  Spirit. 

CHAPTER  XLIV. 

The  saddest  moment  in  the  lives  of  these  two  persons  whose 
history  we  hKsre  followed  for  so  long  was  over  and  done  with. 
Henceforward  to  the  end  El^mere  and  his  wife  were  lovers  as 
of  old.  ~ 

But  that  day  and  night  left  even  deeper  marks  on  Robert 
than  on  Catherine.  Afterward  she  gradually  came  to  feel, 
running  all  through  his  views  of  life,  a  note  sterner,  deeper. 


EGBERT  ELSMEBE. 


61? 


maturer  than  any  present  there  before.  The  reasons  for  it 
were  unknown  to  her,  though  sometimes  her  own,  tender,  ig- 
norant remorse  supplied  them.  But  they  were  hidden  deep  in 
Elsmere's  memory. 

A  few  days  afterward  he  was  casually  told  that  Mme.  de 
Netteville  had  left  England  for  some  time.  As  a  matter  of  fact' 
he  never  set  eyes  on  her  again.  After  awhile  the  extravagance 
of  his  self -blame  abated.  He  sav/  things  as  they  were— without 
morbidness.  But  a  certain  boyish  carelessness  of  mood  he 
never  afterward  quite  recovered.  Men  and  women  of  all 
classes,  and  not  only  among  the  poor,  became  more  real  and 
more  tragic— moral  truths  more  awful— to  him.  It  was  the 
penalty  of  a  highly  strung  nature  set  with  exclusive  intensity 
toward  certain  spiritual  ends. 

On  the  first  opportunity  after  that  conversation  with  Hugh 
Flaxman  which  had  so  deeply  affected  her,  Catherine  accom- 
panied Elsmere  to  his  Sunday  lecture.  He  tried  a  little,  tender- 
ly, to  dissuade  her.  But  she  went,  shrinking  and  yet  deter- 
mined. 

She  had  not  heard  him  speak  in  public  since  that  last  sermon 
of  his  in  Murewell  Church,  every  detail  of  which  by  long 
brooding  had  been  burned  into  her  mind.  The  bare  Elgood 
Street  room,  the  dingy  outlook  on  the  high  walls  of  a  ware- 
house opposite,  the  lines  of  blanched,  quick-eyed  artisans,  the 
dissent  from  what  she  loved,  and  he  had  once  loved,  implied  in 
everything,  the  lecture  itself,  on  the  narratives  of  the  Passion ; 
it  was  all  exquisitely  painful  to  her,  and,  yet,  yet  she  was  glad 
to  be  there. 

Afterward  Wardlaw,  with  the  brusque  remark  to  Elsmere 
that  *'any  fool  could  see  he  was  getting  done  up,"  insisted  on 
taking  the  children's  class.  Catherine,  too,  had  been  im- 
pressed, as  she  saw  Eobert  raised  a  little  above  her  in  the  glare^ 
of  many  windows,  with  the  sudden  perception  that  the  worn, 
exhausted  look  of  the  preceding  summer  had  returned  upon 
him.  She  held  out  her  hand  to  Wardlaw  with  a  quick,  warm 
word  of  thanks.  He  glanced  at  her  curiously.  What  had 
brought  her  there,  after  all? 

Then  Robert,  protesting  that  he  was  being  ridiculously  cod- 
dled, and  that  Wardlaw  was  much  more  in  want  of  a  holiday 
than  he,  was  carried  off  to  the  Embankment,  and  the  two  spent 
a  happy  hour  wandering  westward,  Somerset  House,  the 
bridges,  the  Westminster  towers  rising  before  them  into  the  haze 


itOBEtlT  KLSMBBB. 


of  the  June  afternoon.  A  little  fresh  breeze  came  off  the  river ; 
that,  or  his  wife's  hand  on  his  arm,  seemed  to  put  new  life  into 
Elsmere.  And  she  walked  beside  him,  talking  frankly,  heart 
to  heart,  with  flashes  of  her  old  sweet  gayety,  as  she  had  not 
talked  for  months. 

Deep  in  her  mystical  sense  all  the  time  lay  the  belief  in  a  final 
restoration,  in  an  all-atoning  moment,  perhaps  at  the  very  end 
of  life,  in  which  the  bhnd  would  see,  the  doubter  be  convinced. 
And,  meanwhile,  the  blessedness  of  this  peace,  this  surrender! 
Surely  the  air  this  afternoon  was  pure  and  life-giving  for  them, 
the  bells  rang  for  them,  the  trees  were  green  for  them ! 

He  had  need  in  the  week  that  followed  of  all  that  she  had 
given  back  to  him.  For  Mr.  Grey's  illness  had  taken  a  dan- 
gerous and  alaiming  turn.  It  seemed  to  be  the  issue  of  long 
ill-health,  and  the  doctors  feared  that  there  were  no  resources 
of  constitution  left  to  carry  him  through  it.  Every  day  some 
old  St.  Anselm's  friend  on  the  spot  wrote  to  Elsmere,  and  with 
each  post  the  news  grew  more  despaiiing.  Since  Elsmere  had 
left  Oxford  he  could  count  on  the  fingers  of  one  hand  the  oc- 
casions on  which  he  and  Grey  had  met  face  to  face.  But  for 
him,  as  for  many  another  man  of  our  time,  Henry  Grey's  in- 
fluence was  not  primarily  an  influence  of  personal  contact.  His 
mere  life,  that  he  was  there,  on  English  soil,  within  a  measur- 
able distance,  had  been  to  Elsmere  in  his  darkest  moments  one 
of  his  thoughts  of  refuge.  At  a  time  when  a  rehgion  which  can 
no  longer  be  believed  clashes  with  a  skepticism  full  of  danger 
to  conduct,  every  such  witness  as  Grey  to  the  power  of  a  new 
and  coming  trath  holds  a  special  place  in  the  hearts  of  men  who 
can  neither  accept  fairy  tales,  nor  reconcile  themselves  to  a 
world  without  faith.  The  saintly  life  grows  to  be  a  beacon,  a 
witness.  Men  cling  to  it  as  they  have  always  clung  to  each 
other,  to  the  visible  and  the  tangible ;  as  the  elders  of  Miletus, 
though  the  Way  lay  before  them,  clung  to  the  man  who  had 
set  their  feet  therein,  sorrowing  most  of  all  that  they  should 
see  his  face  no  more." 

The  accounts  grew  worse— all  friends  shut  out,  no  possibility 
of  last  words— the  whole  of  Oxford  moved  and  sorrowing. 
Then  at  last,  on  a  Friday,  came  the  dreaded  expected  letter: 
*'He  is  gone!  He  died  early  this  morningj  without  J)ain,  con- 
scious almost  to  the  end.   He  mentioned  several  friends  by 


EOBBET  ELSMEEE. 


613 


name,  you  among  them,  during  tlie  night.   The  funeral  is  to 
be  on  Tuesday.   You  will  be  here,  of  course." 

Sad  and  memorable  day !  By  an  untoward  chance  it  f eU  m 
Commemoration  week,  and  Robert  found  the  famihar  streets 
teeming  with  life  and  noise,  under  a  showery  uncertain  sky, 
which  every  now  and  then  would  send  the  bevies  of  ligntly 
gowned  maidens,  with  their  mothers  and  attendant  squires, 
skurrying  for  shelter,  and  leave  the  roof^nd  pavements 
glistening.   He  walked  up  to  St.  Anselm's-found  as  he  ex- 
pected, that  the  first  part  of  the  service  was  to  be  m  the  chapel, 
therestinthecemeterv,  and  then  mounted  the  well-known  stair- 
case to  Langham's  rooms.   Langham  was  apparently  m  his 
bedroom.   Lunch  was  on  the  table-the  famihar  commons,  the 
familiar  toast  and  water.   There,  in  a  recess,  were  the  same 
splendid  wall  maps  of  Greece  he  had  so  often  consulted  alter 
lecture    There  was  the  little  case  of  coins,  with  the  gold  Alex- 
anders he  had  handled  with  so  much  covetous  reverence  at 
eighteen.    Outside,  the  irregular  quadrangle  with  its  drippMg 
trees  stretched  before  him;  the  steps  of  the  new  Hall,  now  the 
shower  was  over,  were  crowded  with  gowned  figures.   It  might 
have  been  yesterday  that  he  had  stood  in  that  room,  blushing 
with  awkward  pleasure  under  Mr.  Grey's  first  salutation. 
The  bedroom  door  opened  and  Langham  came  in. 
' '  Elsmere !   But  of  course  I  expected  you." 
His  voice  seemed  to  Robert  curiously  changed.   There  was  a 
flatness  in  it,  an  absence  of  positive  cordiality  which  was  new 
to  him  in  any  greeting  of  Langham's  to  himself,  and  had 
a  chilling  effect  upon  him.    The  face,  too,  was  changed. 
Tint  and  expression  were  both  dulled;  its  marble-like  sharp- 
ness and  finish  had  coarsened  a  little,  and  the  figure,  whwh 
had  never  possessed  the  erectness  of  youth,  had  now  the 
pinched  look  and  the  confirmed  stoop  of  the  valetudinarian. 

"I did  not  write  to  you,  Elsmere,"  he  said  immediately,  as 
though  in  anticipation  of  what  the  other  would  be  sure  to  say ; 
"I knew  nothing  but  what  the  bulletins  said,  and  I  was  told 
that  Cathcart  wrote  to  you.  It  is  many  years  now  since  I 
have  seen  much  of  Grey.  Sit  down  and  have  some  lunch.  We 
have  time,  but  not  too  much  time." 

Robert  took  a  few  mouthf uls.  Langham  was  difficult,  talked 
disconnectedly  of  trifles,  and  Robert  was  soon  painfully  con- 
scious that  the  old  sympathetic  bond  between  them  no  longer 
existed.   Presently,  Langham.  as  though  with  an  effort  to  re- 


620 


KOliKKT  ELSMERE. 


member,  asked  after  Catherine,  then  inquired  what  he  was 
doing  in  the  way  of  writing,  and  neither  of  them  mentioned 
the  name  of  Leyburn.  They  left  the  table  and  sat  spasmodic- 
ally talking,  in  reahty  expectqiit.  And  at  last  the  sound  pres- 
ent already  in  both  minds  made  itself  heard— the  first  long 
solitary  stroke  of  the  chapel  bell. 
Robert  covered  his  eyes. 

'*Do  you  remember  in  this  room,  Langham,  you  introduced 
us  first 

remember,"  repUed  the  other,  abruptly.  Then,  with  a 
half-cynical,  half-melancholy  scrutiny  of  his  companion,  he 
said,  atter  a  pause :  ' '  What  a  faculty  of  hero-worship  you  have 
always  had,  Elsmere!" 

*'Do  you  know  anything  of  the  end?"  Robert  asked  him 
presently,  as  that  tolling  bell  seemed  to  bring  the  strong  feel- 
ing beneath  more  irresistibly  to  the  surface. 

''No,  I  never  asked!"  cried  Langham,  with  sudden  harsh 
animation.  What  purpose  could  be  served  ?  Death  should 
be  avoided  by  the  living.  We  have  no  business  with  it.  Do 
what  we  will,  we  can  not  rehearse  our  own  parts.  And  the 
sight  of  other  men's  performances  helps  us  no  more  than  the 
sight  of  a  great  actor  gives  the  dramatic  gift.  All  they  do  for 
us  is  to  imperil  the  little  nerve,  break  through  the  little  calm, 
we  have  left." 

Elsmere's  hand  dropped,  and  he  turned  round  to  him  with  a 
flashing  smile. 

''  Ah— I  know  it  now— you  loved  him  still." 

Langham,  who  was  standing,  looked  down  on  him  somberly, 
yet  more  indulgently. 

''How  much  you  always  made  of  feeling,"  he  said  after  a 
little  pause,  "in  a  world  where,  according  to  me,  our  chief  ob- 
ject should  be  not  to  feel." 

Then  he  began  to  himt  for*  his  cap  and  gown.  In  another 
minute  the  two  made  part  of  the  crowd  in  the  front  quadrangle, 
where  the  rain  was  sprinkling,  and  the  insistent  grief -laden 
voice  of  the  bell  rolled,  from  pause  to  pause,  above  the  gowned 
figures,  spreading  thence  in  wide  waves  of  mourning  sound 
over  Oxford. 

The  chapel  service  passed  over  Robert  like  a  solemn  pathetic 
dream. 

The  lines  of  under-graduate  faces,  the  provost's  white  head, 
the  voice  of  the  chaplain  reading,  the  fuU  male  unison  of  the 


EOBKET  ELSMEEE.  621 

voices  replying-liow  they  carried  him  back  to  the  day  when  as 
a  lad  from  school  he  had  sat  on  one  of  the  chancel  benches  be- 
side his  mother,  listening  for  the  first  time  to  the  subtle  Sim- 
plicity if  one  may  be  aUowed  the  paradox,  of  the  provost's 
preaching  I  Just  opposite  to  where  he  sat  now  with  Langham, 
Grey  had  sat  that  first  afternoon ;  the  freshman's  curious  eyes 
had  been  drawn  again  and  again  to  the  dark,  massive  head,  the 
face  with  its  look  of  reposeful  force,  of  righteous  strength. 
During  the  lesson  from  Corinthians,  Elsmere's  thoughts  were 
irrelevantly  busy  with  all  sorts  of  mundane  memories  of  the 
dead    What  was  especially  present  to  him  was  a  series  ot  Lib- 
eral election  meetings  in  which  Grey  had  taken  a  warm  part, 
and  in  which  he  himself  had  helped  just  before  he  took  Orders. 
A.  hundred  odd,  incongruous  details  came  back  to  Eobert  now 
with  poignant  force.   Grey  had  been  to  him  at  one  time  primar- 
ily the  professor,  the  philosopher,  the  representative  of  all  that 
was  best  in  the  life  of  the  university ;  now,  fresh  from  his  own 
grapple  with  London  and  its  life,  what  moved  him  most  was 
tiie  memory  of  the  citizen,  the  friend  and  brother  of  common 
man,  the  thinker  who  had  never  shirked  action  m  the  name  of 
thought,  for  whom  conduct  had  been  from  begmnmg  to  end 

the  first  reality.  ,     i,-  v 

The  procession  through  the  streets  afterward,  which  con- 
veyed the  body  of  thi*5  great  son  of  modern  Oxford  to  its  last 
resting-place  in  the  citizens'  cemetery  on  the  western  side  of 
the  town,  will  not  soon  be  forgotten,  even  in  a  place  which  for- 
gets notoriously  soon.   AU  the  university  was  there,  all  the 
town  was  there.   Side  by  side  with  men  honorably  dear  to  Eng- 
land who  had  carried  with  them  into  one  or  other  of  the  great 
BngUsh  careers  the  memory  of  the  teacher,  were  men  who  bad 
known  from  day  to  day  the  cheery,  modest  helper  m  a  hun- 
dred local  causes;  side  by  side  with  the  youth  of  Alma  Mater 
went  the  poor  of  Oxford;  tradesmen  and  artisans  followed  or 
accompanied  the  group  of  gowned  and  venerable  figures  repre- 
senting the  heads  of  houses  and  the  professors,  or  mingled  with 
the  slowly  pacing  crowd  of  masters;  while  along  the  route 
croups  of  visitors.and  merry-makers,  young  men  m  flannels  or 
girls  in  light  dresses,  stood  with  suddenly  grave  faces  here  and 
there,  caught  by  the  general  wave  of  mourning,  and  wondering 
what  such  a  spectacle  might  mean.  ,  ,   „      ,  , 

Eobert,  losing  sight  of  Langham  as  they  left  the  chapel, 
found  his  arm  grasped  by  young  Cathcart,  his  correspondent, 


622 


ROBERT  ELSMEEK. 


The  man  was  a  junior  Fellow  who  had  attached  himself  to  Grey 

during  the  two  preceding  years  with  especial  devotion.  Robert 
had  only  a  slight  knowledge  of  him,  but  there  was  romething 
in  Ills  voice  and  gi-ip  which  made  him  feel  at  once  infinitely 
more  at  home  with  him  at  this  moment  than  he  had  felt  with 
the  old  friend  of  his  under-graduate  years. 

They  walked  down  Beaumont  Street  together.  The  rain 
came  on  again,  and  the  long  black  crowd  stretched  before  them 
was  lashed  by  the  driving  gusts.  As  they  went  along,  Cath- 
cart  told  him  all  he  wanted  to  know. . 

*^The  night  before  the  end  he  was  perfectly  calm  and  con- 
scious. I  told  you  he  mentioned  your  name  among  the  friends 
to  whom  he  sent  his  good-bye.  He  thought  for  everybody.  For 
all  those  of  his  house  he  left  the  most  minute  and  tender  direc- 
tions. He  forgot  nothing.  And  all  with  such  extraordinary 
simplicity  and  quietness,  like  one  arranging  for  a  journey  I  In 
the  evening  an  old  Quaker  aunt  of  his,  a  north-country  woman 
whom  he  had  been  much  with  as  a  boy,  and  to  whom  he  was 
much  attached,  was  sitting  with  him.  I  was  there  too.  She 
was  a  beautiful  old  figure  in  her  white  cap  and  kerchief,  and  it 
seemed  to  please  him  to  lie  and  look  at  her.  ^  It'll  not  be  for 
long,  Henry,'  she  said  to  him  once.  'I'm  seventy-seven  this 
spring.  I  shall  come  to  you  soon.'  He  made  no  reply,  and  his 
silence  seemed  to  disturb  her.  I  don't  fancy  she  had  known 
much  of  his  mind  of  late  years.  *  You'll  not  be  doubting  the 
Lord's  goodness,  Henry?'  she  said  to  him,  with  the  tears  in  her 
eyes.  ' No,'  he  said,  'no,  never.  Only  it  seems  to  be  His  will, 
we  should  be  certain  of  nothing— Himself!  I  ask  no  more. ' 
I  shall  never  forget  the  accent  of  those  words:  they  were  the 
breath  of  his  inmost  life.  If  ever  man  was  Gotthetrunken  it 
^^s  he— and  yet  not  a  word  beyond  what  he  felt  to  be  trae, 
beyond  what  the  intellect  could  grasp  I" 

Twenty  minutes  later  Robert  stood  by  the  open  grave.  The 
rain  beat  down  on  the  black  concourse  of  mourners.  But  there 
were  blue  spaces  in  the  drifting  sky,  and  a  wavering  rainy  light 
played  at  intervals  over  the  Wytham  and  Hinksey  Hills,  and 
over  the  butter-cupped  river  meadows,  where  the  lush  hay-grass 
bent  in  long  lines  under  the  showers.  To  his  left,  the  provost, 
his  glistening  white  head  bare  to  the  rain,  was  reading  the  rest 
jf  the  service. 

As  the  coffin  was  lowered  Elsniere  bent  over  the  grave.  * '  My 
friend,  my  master,"  cried  the  yearning,  filial  heart,  *'oh,  give 


EGBERT  ELSMERB, 


623 


me  something  of  yourself  to  take  back  into  life,  something  to 
brace  me  through  this  darkness  of  our  ignorance,  something  to 
Keep  hope  alive  as  you  kept  it  to  the  end !" 

And  on  the  inwai^  ear  there  rose,  with  the  solemnity  of  a 
iast  message,  M^ords  which  years  before  he  had  found  marked 
4n  a  little  book  of  Meditations  borrowed  from  Grey's  table- 
words  long  treasured  and  often  repeated— 

^' Amid  a  world  of  forgetfulness  and  decay,  in  the  sight  ol 
his  own  shortcomings  and  limitations,  or  on  the  edge  of  the 
tomb,  he  alone  who  has  found  his  soul  in  losing  it,  who  in  sin- 
gleness of  mind  has  lived  in  order  to  love  and  understand^  will 
find  that  the  God  wiio  is  near  to  him  as  his  own  conscience 
has  a  face  of  light  and  love." 

Pressing  the  phrases  into  his  memory,  he  listened  to  the 
triumphant  outbursts  of  the  Christian  service. 

''Man's hope,"  he  thought,  *'has  grown  humbler  than  this. 
It  keeps  now  a  more  modest  mien  in  the  presence  of  the  Eter- 
nal Mystery;  but  is  it  in  truth  less  real,  less  sustaining  ?  Let 
Grey's  trust  answer  for  me." 

He  walked  away  absorbed,  till  at  last  in  the  little  squalid 
street  outside  the  cemetery  it  occurred  to  him  to  look  round 
for  Langham.  Instead,  he  found  Cathcart,  who  had  just  come 
up  with  him. 

**Is  Langham  behind?"  he  asked.  '*I  want  a  word  with 
him  before  I  go." 

Is  he  here?"  asked  the  other  with  a  change  of  expression. 
But  of  course !   He  was  in  the  chapeL    How  could  you—" 

''I  thought  he  would  probably  go  away,"  said  Cathcart  with 
some  bitterness.  Grey  made  many  efforts  to  get  him  to 
come  and  see  him  before  he  became  so  desperately  ill.  Lang- 
ham came  once.    Grey  never  asked  for  him  again." 

"It  is  his  old  horror  of  expression,  I  suppose,"  said  Robert, 
troubled;  ''his  dread  of  being  forced  to  take  a  Ime,  to  face 
anything  certain  and  irrevocable.  I  understand.  He  could 
not  say  good-bye  to  a  friend  to  save  his  life.  There  is  no  shirk- 
ing that !   One  must  either  do  it  or  leave  it !" 

Cathcart  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  drew  a  masterly  little 
picture  of  Langham's  life  in  college.  •  He  had  succeeded  by 
the  most  adroit  devices  in  completely  isolating  himself  both 
from  the  older  and  the  younger  men. 

"  He  attends  college  meeting  sometimes,  and  contributes  a 
sarcasm  or  two  on  the  crmnming  system  of  the  college.  He 


624 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


takes  a  constitutional  to  Summerton  every  day  on  the  least  fre- 
quented side  of  the  road,  that  he  may  avoid  being  spoken  to. 
And  as  to  his  ways  of  living,  he  and  I  happen  to  have  the  same 
Bcout— old  Dobson,  you  remember?  And  if  I  would  let  him,  he 
would  tell  me  tales  by  the  hour.  He  is  the  only  man  in  the 
university  who  knows  anything  about  it.  I  gather  from  what 
he  says  that  Langham  is  i3ecoming  a  complete  valetudinarian. 
Everything  must  go  exactly  by  rule-his  food,  his  work, 
the  management  of  his  clothes— and  any  little  contretemps 
toakes  him  ill.  But  the  comedy  is  to  watch  him  when  there  is 
anything  going  on  in  the  place  that  he  thinks  may  lead  to  a 
canvass  and  to  any  attem_pt  to  influence  him  for  a  vote.  On 
these  occasions  he  goes  off  with  automatic  regularity  to  a  hotel 
at  West  Malvern,  and  only  reappears  when  the  '  Times  '  tells 
him  the  thing  is  done  with." 

Both  laughed.  Then  Eobert  sighed.  Weaknesses  of  Lang- 
kam's  sort  may  be  amusing  enough  to  the  contemptuous  and 
unconcerned  outsider.  Bub  the  general  result  of  them,  whether 
for  the  man  himself  or  those  whom  he  affects,  is  tragic,  not 
comic ;  and  Elsmere  had  good  reason  for  knowing  it. 

Later,  after  a  long  talk  with  the  provost,  and  meetings  with 
various  other  old  friends,  he  walked  down  to  the  station,  under 
a  sky  clear  from  rain,  and  through  a  town  gay  with  festal  prep- 
arations. Not  a  sign  now,  in  these  crowded,  bustling  streets, 
of  that  melancholy  pageant  of  the  afternoon.  The  heroic  mem- 
ory had  flashed  for  a  moment  like  something  vivid  and  gleam- 
ing in  the  sight  of  all,  understanding  and  ignorant.  Now  it 
lay  committed  to  a  few  faithful  hearts,  there  to  become  one 
seed  among  many  of  a  new  religious  Hfe  in  England. 

On  the  platform  Eobert  found  himself  nervously  accosted  by 
a  tall,  shabbily  dressed  man. 

* '  Elsmere,  have  you  forgotten  me ?" 

He  turned  and  recognized  a  man  whom  he  had  last  seen  as 
a  St.  Anselm's  under-graduate~one  MacNiell,  a  handsome 
rowdy  young  Irishman,  supposed  to  be  clever,  and  decidedly 
popular  in  the  college.  As  he  stood  looking  at  him,  puzzled  by 
the  difference  between  the  old  impression  and  the  new,  sud^ 
denly  the  man's  story  flashed  across  him ;  he  remembered  some 
disgraceful  escapade— an  expulsion. 

You  came  for  the  funeral,  of  course?"  said  the  other,  hisi 
face  flushing  consciously. 
Yes— and  you  too?" 


EOBERT  ELSMERE. 


625 


The  man  turned  away,  and  something  in  his  silence  led  Rob- 
ert to  stroll  on  beside  him  to  the  open  end  of  the  platform. 

I  have  lost  my  only  friend,"  MacNiell  said  at  last,  hoarse- 
ly. '*He  took  me  up  when  my  own  father  would  have  noth- 
ing to  say  to  me.  He  found  me  work;  he  wrote  to  me;  for 
years  he  stood  between  me  and  perdition.  I  am  just  going  out 
to  a  post  in  New  Zealand  he  got  for  me,  and  next  week  before 
I  sail— I— I— am  to  be  married— and  he  was  to  be  there.  He 
was  so  pleased— he  had  seen  her." 

It  was  one  story  out  of  a  hundred  like  it,  as  Robert  knew 
very  well.  They  talked  for  a  few  minutes,  then  the  train 
loomed  in  the  distance. 

''He  saved  you,"  said  Robert,  holding  out  his  hand,  ''  and 
at  a  dark  moment  in  my  own  life  I  owed  him  everything. 
There.is  nothing  we  can  do  for  him  in  return  but— to  remem- 
ber him !  Write  to  me,  if  you  can  or  will,  from  New  Zealand, 
for  his  sake." 

A  few  seconds  later  the  train  sped  past  the  bare  Httle  ceme- 
tery, which  lay  just  beyond  the  line.  Robert  bent  forward. 
Ir.  the  yellow  glow  of  the  evening  he  could  distinguish  the 
grave,  the  mound  of  gravel,  the  planks,  and  some  figures  mov- 
ing beside  it.  He  strained  his  eyes  till  he  could  see  no  more, 
his  heart  full  of  veneration,  of  memory,  of  prayer.  In  himself 
life  seemed  so  restless  and  combative.  Surely  he,  more  than 
others,  had  need  of  the  lofty  lessons  of  death ! 

CHAPTER  XLV. 

In  the  weeks  which  followed— weeks  often  of  mental  and 
I  physical  depression,  caused  by  his  sense  of  personal  loss  and 
by  the  influence  of  an  overworked  state  he  could  not  be  got  to 
admit— Elsmere  owed  much  to  Hugh  Flaxman's  cheery,  sym- 
I  pathetic  temper,  and  became  more  attached  to  him  than  ever, 
I  and  more  ready  than  ever,  should  the  fates  deem  it  so,  to  wel- 
come him  as  a  brother-in-law.    However,  the  fates  for  the  mo- 
ment seemed  to  have  borrowed  a  leaf  from  Langham's  book, 
I  and  did  not  apparently  know  their  own  minds.    It  says  vol- 
:  umes  for  Hugh  Flaxman's  general  capacities  as  a  human  being 
I  that  at  this  period  he  should  have  had  any  attention  to  give 
I  to  a  friend,  his  position  as  a  lover  was  so  dubious  and  difficult. 

After  the  evening  at  the  Workmen's  Club,  and  as  a  result 
of  further  meditation,  he  had  greatly  developed  the  tacticr 


g26  EOBEET  EL8MEEE. 

first  adopted  on  that  occasion.   He  had  beaten  a  masterly  re- 
treat, and  Rose  Leyburn  was  troubled  with  him  no  more. 

The  result  was  that  a  certain  brilliant  young  person  was  soon 
sharply  conscious  of  a  sudden  drop  in  the  pleasures  of  living. 
Mr  Flaxman  had  been  the  Leyburns'  most  constant  and  enter- 
taining visitor.  During  the  whole  of  May  he  paid  one  formal 
call  in  Lerwick  Gardens,  and  was  then  entertained  tete-a-tete 
by  Mrs  Leyburn,  to  Rose's  intense  subsequent  annoyance,  who 
knew  perfectly  weU  that  her  mother  was  incapable  of  chatter- 
ing about  anything  but  her  daiighters. 

He  still  sent  flowei-s,  but  they  came  from  his  heaJ  gardener 
addressed  to  Mrs.  Leyburn.  Agnes  put  them  in  water;  and 
Rose  never  gave  them  a  look.  Rose  went  to  Lady  Helen  s  De- 
cause  Lady  Helen  made  her,  and  was  much  too  engaging  a 
creature  to  be  rebuffed;  but,  however  merry  land  protracted 
the  teas  in  those  scented  rooms  might  be,  Mr.  Flaxmans  step 
on  the  stairs,  and  Mr.  Flaxman's  hand  on  the  curtain  over  the 
door  till  now  the  feature  in  the  entertainment  most  to  be 
counted  on,  were,  generally  speaking,  conspicuously  absent. 

He  and  the  Leyburns  met,  of  course;  for  then-  Ust  of  com- 
mon friends  was  now  considerable;  but  Agnes,  reporting  mat- 
ters to  Catherine,  could  only  say  that  each  of  these  occasions 
left  Rose  more  irritable,  and  more  inclined  to  say  bitmg  things 
as  to  the  fooUsh  ways  in  which  society  takes  its  pleasures. 

Rose  certainly  ^as  irritable,  and  at  times,  Agnes  thought, 
depressed.  Bu*  as  usual  she  was  unapproachable  about  her 
own  affairs,  and  the  state  of  her  mind  could  only  be  somewhat 
dolefuUy  gathered  from  the  fact  that  she  was  much  less  un- 
wiUing  to  go  back  to  Burwood  this  summer  than  had  ever  been 
known  before. 

MeanwhUe,  Mr.  Flaxman  left  certain  other  people  m  no 
doubt  as  to  his  intentions. 

"  My  dear  aunt,"  he  said  calmly  to  Lady  Charlotte,  I  mean 
to  marry  Miss  Leyburn  if  I  can  at  any  time  persuade  her  to 
have  me.  So  much  you  may  take  as  fixed,  and  it  will  be  quite 
waste  of  breath  on  your  part  to  quote  dukes  to  me.  But  the 
other  factor  in  the  problem  is  by  no  means  fixed.  Miss  Ley- 
bum  won't  have  me  for  the  present,  and  as  for  the  future  I 
have  most  salutary  qualms."  *  -r 

"Hugh!"  interrupted  Lady  Charlotte,  angrily,  as  if  you 
hadn't  the  mothers  of  London  at  your  feet  for  years 

Lady  Charlotte  was  in  a  most  variable  frame  of  mmd;  one 


ROBEBT  ELSMERE. 


627 


day  hoping  devoutly  that  the  Langham  affair  might  prove 
lasting  enough  in  its  effects  to  tire  Hugh  out;  the  next,  out- 
raged that  a  silly  girl  should  waste  a  thought  on  such  a  crea- 
ture, while  Hugh  was  in  her  way ;  at  one  time  angry  that  an 
insignificant  chit  of  a  school  master's  daughter  should  appar- 
ently care  so  little  to  he  the  Duke  of  Sedbergh's  niece,  and 
should  even  dare  to  allow  herself  the  luxury  of  snubbing  a 
Flaxman;  at  another,  utterly  skeptical  as  to  any  lasting  ob- 
duracy on  the  chit's  part.  The  girl  was  clearly  anxious  not  to 
fall  too  easily,  but  as  to  final  refusal— pshaw !  And  it  made 
her  mad  that  Hugh  would  hold  himself  so  cheap. 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Flaxman  felt  himself  in  no  way  called  upon 
to  answer  that  remark  of  his  aunt's  we  have  recorded. 

J' I  have  qualms,"  he  repeated,  *'but  I  mean  to  do  all  I 
know,  and  you  and  Helen  must  help  me." 

Lady  Charlotte  crossed  her  hands  before  her. 

''I  may  be  a  Liberal  and  a  lion-hunter," she  said,  firmly, 
**but  I  have  still  conscience  enough  left  not  to  aid  and  abet 
my  nephew  in  throwing  himself  away." 

She  had  nearly  slipped  in  ^' again;"  but  just  saved  herself. 
Your  conscience  is  all  a  matter  of  the  duke,"  he  told  her. 

''Well,  if  you  won't  help  me,  then  Helen  and  I  will  have  to 
arrange  it  by  ourselves." 

But  this  did  not  suit  Lady 'Charlotte  at  all.  She  had  always 
played  the  part  of  earthly  providence  to  this  particular  nephew, 
and  it  was  abominable  to  her  that  the  wretch,  having  refused 
for  ten  years  to  provide  her  with  a  love  affair  to  manage, 
should  now  manage  one  for  himself  in  spite  of  her. 

*^You  are  such  an  arbitrary  creature  I"  she  said,  fretfully; 
**you  prance  about  the  world  like  Don  Quixote,  and  expect 
me  to  play  Sancho  without  a  murmur." 

**How  many  drubbings  have  I  brought  you  yet?"  he  asked 
her,  laughing.  He  was. really  very  fond  of  her.  *'It  is  true 
there  is  a  point  of  likeness ;  I  wont  take  your  advice.  But  then 
wliy  don't  you  give  me  better?  It  is  strange,"  he  added,  mus- 
ing; "  women  talk  to  us  about  love  as  if  we  were  too  gross  to 
anderstand  it ;  and  when  they  com§  to  business,  and  they're  not 
in  it  themselves,  they  show  the  temper  of  attorneys." 

**Love!"  <3ried  Lady  Charlotte,  nettled.  '*Do  you  mean  to 
tell  me,  Hugh,  that  you  are  really,  seriously  in  love  with  that 
girl?" 

Well,  I  only  know,"  he  said,  thrusting  his  hands  far  into 


628 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


his  pockets,  that  unless  things  mend  I  shall  go  out  to  Cali- 
fornia in  the  autumn  and  try  ranching." 

Lady  Charlotte  burst  into  an  angry  laugh.  He  stood  oppo- 
site to  her,  with  his  orchid  in  his  button-hole,  himself  the  fine 
flower  of  civilization.  Eanching,  indeed!  However,  he  had 
done  so  many  odd  things  in  his  life,  that,  as  she  knew,  it  was 
never  quite  safe  to  decline  to  take  him  seriously,  and  he  looked 
at  her  now  so  defiantly,  his  clear,  greenish  eyes  so  wide  open 
and  alert,  that  her  will  began  to  waver  under  the  pressure  of 
his. 

What  do  you  want  me  to  do,  sir?" 
His  glance  relaxed  at  once,  and  he  laughingly  explained  to 
her  that  what  he  asked  of  her  was  to  keep  the  prey  in  sight. 

''I  can  do  nothing  for  myself  at  present,"  he  said;  get 
on  her  nerves.  She  was  in  love  with  that  black-haired  enfant 
du  Steele— or  rather,  she  prefers  to  assume  that  she  was— and  I 
haven't  given  her  time  to  forget  him.  A  serious  blunder,  and 
I  deserve  to  suffer  for  it.  Very  well,  then,  I  retire,  and  I  ask 
you  and  Helen  to  keep  watch.  Don't  let  her  go.  Make  your- 
selves nice  to  her;  and,  in  fact,  spoil  me  a  little  now  I  am  on 
the  high-road  to  forty,  as  you  used  to  spoil  me  at  fourteen." 

Mr.  Flaxman  sat  down  by  his  aunt  and  kissed  her  hand,  after 
which  Lady  Charlotte  was  as  wax  before  him.  ''Thank 
Heaven,"  she  reflected,  ''in  ten  days  the  duke  and  all  of  them 
go  out  of  town."  Retribution,  therefore,  for  wrong-doing  would 
be  tardy,  if  wrong-doing  there  must  be.  She  could  but  rue- 
fully reflect  that  after  all  the  girl  was  beautiful  and  gifted; 
moreover,  if  Hugh  would  force  her  to  befriend  him  in  this 
criminality,  there  might  be  a  certain  joy  in  thereby  vindica- 
ting those  Liberal  principles  of  hers,  in  which  a  scornful  family 
had  always  refused  to  believe.  So,  being  driven  into  it,  she 
would  fain  have  done  it  boldly  and  with  a  dash.  But  she  could 
not  rid  her  mind  of  the  duke,  and  her  performance  all  through, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  was  blundering. 

However,  she  was  for  the  time  very  gracious  to  Rose,  being 
in  truth  really  fond  of  her;  and  Rose,  however  high  she  might 
hold  her  little  head,  could  find  no  excuse  for  quarreling  either 
with  her  or  Lady  Helen. 

Toward  the  middle  of  June  there  was  a  grand  ball  given  by 
Lady  Fauntleroy  at  Fauntleroy  House,  to  which  the  two  Miss 
Leyburns,  by  Lady  Helen's  machinations,  were  invited.  It  was 
to  be  one  of  the  events  of  the  season,  and  when  the  cards 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


arrived  to  have  the  honor  of  meeting  their  royal  highnesses," 
^tc,  etc.,  Mrs.  Leyburn,  good  soul,  gazed  at  them  with  eyes 
which  grew  a  little  moist  under  her  spectacles.  She  wished 
Richard  could  have  seen  the  girls  dressed,  "just  once."  But 
tlose  treated  the  cards  with  no  sort  of  tenderness.  ''If  one 
could  but  put  them  up  to  auction,"  she  said,  flippantly,  hold 
ing  them  up,  "how  many  German  opera  tickets  I  should  get 
for  nothing !  I  don't  know  what  Agnes  feels.  As  for  me,  I 
have  neither  nerve  enough  for  the  people,  nor  money  enough 
tor  the  toilet." 

However,  with  eleven  o'clock  Lady  Helen  ran  in,  a  fresh 
vision  of  blue  and  white,  to  suggest  certain  dresses  for  the 
sisters,  which  had  occurred  to  her  in  the  visions  of  the  night, 
"original,  adorable— cost,  a  mere  nothing!" 

"My  harpy,"  she  remarked^  alluding  to  her  dress-maker, 
"  would  ruin  you  over  them,  of  course.  Your  maid"— the 
Ley  burns  possessed  a  remarkably  clever  one— "will  make 
them  divinely  for  twopence-halfpenny.  Listen." 

Eose  listened ;  her  eye  kindled ;  the  maid  was  summoned ;  and 
the  invitation  accepted  in  Agnes's  neatest  hand.  Even  Cath- 
erine was  roused  during  the  following  ten  days  to  a  smiling  in- 
dulgent interest  in  the  concerns  of  the  vvork-room. 

The  evening  came,  and  Lady  Helen  fetched  the  sisters  in  her 
carriage.  The  ball  was  a  magnificent  affair.  The  house  was 
one  of  historical  interest  and  importance,  and  all  that  the  inge- 
nuity of  the  present  could  do  to  give  fresh  life  and  gayety  to  the 
pillared  rooms,  the  carved  galleries  and  stately  staircases  of  the 
past,  had  been  done.  The  ball-room,  lined  with  Yandycks  and 
Lelys,  glowed  softly  with  electric  light;  the-picture-gallery  had 
been  banked  v^ith  flowers  and  carpeted  with  red,  and  the  beau- 
tiful dresses  of  the  women  trailed  up  and  down  it,  challenging 
the  satins  of  the  Netschers  and  the  Terburgs  on  the  walls. 

Rose's  card  was  soon  full  to  overflowing.  The  young  men 
present  were  of  the  smartest,  and  would  not  willingly  have 
bowed  the  knee  to  a  nobody,  however  pretty.  But  Lady 
Helen's  devotion,  the  girl's  reputation  as  a  musician,  and  her 
little  nonchalant  disdainful  ways,  gave  her  a  kind  of  prestige, 
which  made  her,  for  the  time  being  at  any  rate,  the  equal  of 
anybody.  Petitioners  came  aitd  went  away  empty.  Royalty 
was  introduced,  and  smiled  both  upon  the  beauty  and  the 
beauty's  delicate  and  becoming  dress;  and  still  Rose,  though  a 
good  deal  more  flushed  and  erect  than  usual,  and  though  flesh 


630 


BOBEBT  ELSMEBB. 


and  blood  could  not  resist  the  contagious  pleasure  which  glis- 
tened even  in  the  eyes  of  that  sage  Agnes,  was  more  than  half- 
inclined  to  say,  with  the  preacher,  that  all  was  vanity. 

Presently,  as  she  stood  waiting  with  her  hand  on  her  part- 
ner's arm  before  gliding  into  a  waltz,  she  saw  Mr.  Flaxman 
opposite  to  her,  and  with  him  a  young  debutante  in  white  tulle 
—a  thin,  pretty,  undeveloped  creature,  whose  sharp  elbows 
and  timid  movements,  together  with  the  blushing  enjoyment 
glowing  so  frankly  from  her  face,  pointed  her  out  as  the  school- 
girl of  sweet  seventeen,  just  emancipated,  and  trying  her 
wings. 

Ah,  there  is  Lady  Florence!"  said  her  partner,  a  handsome 
young  hussar.  **This  ball  is  in  her  honor,  you  know.  She 
comes  out  to-night.  What,  another  cousin?  Keally  she  keeps 
too  much  in  the  family 

**Is  Mr.  Flaxman  a  cousin?" 

The  young  man  replied  that  he  was,  and  then,  in  the  inter- 
vals of  waltzing,  went  on  to  explain  to  her  the  relationships  of 
many  of  the  people  present,  till  the  whole  gorgeous  affair 
began  to  seem  to  Eose  a  mere  famOy  party.  Mr.  Flaxman  was 
of  it.    She  was  not. 

Why  am  I  here?", the  little  Jacobin  said  to  herself,  fiercely, 
as  she  waltzed;  ^'it  is  foolish,  unprofitable.  I  do  not  belong 
to  them,  nor  they  to  me!" 

•  Miss  Ley  bum !  charmed  to  see  you  I"  cried  Lady  Charlotte, 
stopping  her;  and  then,  in  a  loud  whisper  in  her  ear,  Never 
saw  you  look  better.  Your  taste,  or  Helen's,  that  dress?  The 
roses — exquisite !" 

Rose  dropped  her  a  little  mock  courtesy  and  whirled  on 
again. 

''Lady  Florences  are  always  well  dressed,"  thought  the 
child,  angrily;  ''  and  who  notices  it?" 

Another  turn  brought  them  against  Mr.  Flaxman  and  his 
partner.  Mr.  Flaxman  came  at  once  to  greet  her  with  smiling 
courtesy. 

I  have  a  Cambridge  friend  to  introduce  to  you — a  beautiful 
youth.  Shall  I  find  you  by  Helen?  Now,  Lady  Florence,  pa- 
tience a  moment.  That  corner  is  too  crowded.  How  good 
that  last  turn  was !" 

And  bending  with  a  sort  of  kind  chivalry  over  his  partner, 
who  looked  at  him  with  the  eyes  of  a  joyous,  excited  child,  he 
led  her  away.   Five  minutes  later  Eose,  standing  flushed  by 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


631 


Lady  HeleD,  saw  him  coming  again  toward  her,  ushering  a  tall, 
blue-eyed  youth,  whom  he  introduced  to  her  as  Lord  Wayn- 
flete."  The  handsome  boy  looked  at  her  with  a  boy's  open  ad- 
miration, and  beg-uiled  her  of  a  supper  dance,  while  a  group 
standing  near,  a  mother  and  three  daughters,  stood  watching 
with  cold  eyes  and  expressions  which  said  plainly  to  the  in- 
itiated that  mere  beauty  was  receiving  a  ridiculous  amount  of 
attention. 

I  wouldn't  have  given  it  him,  but  it  is  rude— it  is  bad  man- 
-ners,  not  even  to  ask !"  the  supposed  victress  was  saying  to  her- 
self, with  quivering  lips,  her  eyes  following  not  the  Trinity 
freshman,  who  was  their  latest  captive,  but  an  older  man's  well- 
knit  figure,  and  a  head  on  which  the  fair  hair  was  already 
growing  scantily,  receding  a  little  from  the  fine  inteUectual 
brows. 

An  hour  later  she  was  again  standing  by  Lady  Helen,  wait- 
ing for  a  partner,  when  she  saw  two  persons  crossing  the 
room,  which  was  just  beginning  to  fill  again  for  dancing,  to- 
ward  them.  One  was  Mr.  Flaxman,  the  other  was  a  smaU, 
wrinkled  old  man,  who  leaned  upon  his  arm,  displaying  the 
ribbon  of  the  Garter  as  he  walked. 

Dear  me,"  said  Lady  Helen,  a  little  fluttered,  here  is  my 
uncle  Sedbergh.   I  thought  they  had  left  town." 

The  pair  approached,  and  the  old  duke  bowed  over  his  niece's 
hand  with  the  manners  of  a  past  generation. 

''I  made  Hugh  give  me  an  arm,"  he  said,  quaveringly 

These  floors  are  homicidal.  If  I  come  down  on  them  J  shall 
bring  an  action." 

I'  I  thought  you  had  all  left  town?"  said  Lady  Helen. 
Who  can  make  plans  with  a  government  in  power  pledged 
to  every  sort  of  villainy  and  public  plunder  ?"  said  the  old 
man,  testily.    ^^I  suppose  Parley's  there  to-night,  helping  to 
vote  away  my  property  and  Fauntleroy's." 

*  I  Some  of  his  own,  too,  if  you  please!"  said  Lady  Helen, 
smilmg.  Yes,  I  suppose  he  u  waiting  for  the  division,  or  he 
would  be  here." 

I  wonder  why  Providence  blessed  me  with  such  a  Eadical 
crew  of  relations?"  remarked  the  duke.  -  Hugh  is  a  regular 
Communist.  I  never  heard  such  arguments  in  my  life.  And 
as  for  any  idea  of  standing  by  his  order-"  The  old  man  shook 
his  bald  head  and  shrugged  his  small  shoulders  with  almost 
French  vivacity.   He  had  been  handsome  once,  and  dehcately 


632  ROBERT  ELSMERE. 

featured,  but  now  the  left  eye  drooped,  and  the  face  had  a 
stroijg  look  of  peevishness  and  ill-health. 

Uncle,"  interposed  Lady  Helen,  ^'  let  me  introduce  you  to 
my  two  great  friends,  Miss  Leyburn,  Miss  Rose  Leyburn.'^ 

The  duke  bowed,  looked  at  them  through  a  pak  of  sharp 
eyes,  seemed  to  cogitate  inwardly  whether  such  a  name  had^ 
pver  been  known  to  him,  and  turned  to  his  nephew. 

^^Get  me  out  of  this,  Hugh,  and  I  shall  be  obliged  to  you. 
Young  people  may  risk  it,  but  if  /broke  I  shouldn't  mend.'' 

And  still  grumbling  audibly  about  the  floor,  he  hobbled  off 
toward  the  picture-gallery.  Mr.  Flaxman  had  only  time  for  a 
smiling  backward  glance  at  Rose. 

Have  you  given  my  pretty  boy  a  dance?" 
*^Yes,"  she  said,  but  with  as  much  stiffness  as  she  might 
have  shown  to  his  uncle. 

'^That's  over,"  said  Lady  Helen  with  relief.  ^^My  uncle 
hardly  meets  any  of  us  now  without  a  spar.  He  has  never  for- 
given my  father  for  going  over  to  the  Liberals.  And  then  he 
thinks  we  none  of  us  consult  him  enough.  No  more  we  do- 
except  Aunt  Charlotte.  She's  afraid  of  him !" 
Lady  Charlotte  afraid !"  echoed  Rose. 
Odd,  isn't  it?  The  duke  avenges  a  good  many  victims  on 
her,  if  they  only  knew !" 

Lady  Helen  was  called  away,  and  Rose  was  left  standing, 
wondering  what  had  happened  to  her  partner. 

Opposite,  Mr.  Flaxman  was  pushing  through  a  door-way, 
and  Ladv  Florence  was  again  on  his  arm.  At  the  same  time 
she  became  conscious  of  a  morsel  of  chaperons'  conversation 
such  as,  by  the  kind  contrivances  of  fate,  a  girl  is  tolerably 
sure  to  hear  under  similar  circumstances. 

The  debutante's  good  looks,  Hugh  Flaxman's  apparent  sus- 
ceptibiiity  to  them,  the  possibility  of  results,  and  the  satisfac- 
tory disposition  of  the  family  goods  and  chattels  that  would  be 
brought  about  by  such  a  match,  the  opportunity  it  would  offer 
the  man,  too,  of  rehabilitating  himself  socially  after  his  first 
matrimonial  escapade-Rose  caught  fragments  of  all  these  topics 
as  they  were  discussed  by  two  old  ladies,  presumably  also  of 
the  family  ring,,"  who  gossiped  behind  her  with  more  gusto 
than  discretion.  Highmindedness,  of  course,  told  her  to  move 
away;  something  else  held  her  fast,  till  her  partner  came  up 
forhcT- 

Then  sne  floated  away  into  the  whirlwind  of  waltzes.  BvA 


EOBEET  ELSMBEB.  g3g 

as  she  moved  round  the  room  on  her  partner's  arm,  her  deh- 
cate,  half-scornful  grace  attracting  look  after  look,  the  soi.l 
withm  was  all  aflame-aflame  against  the  serried  ranks  «n.] 
phalanxes  of  this  unfamiliar,  hostile  world !  She  had  iust  bPPn 
reading  Trevelyan's  "  Life  of  Fox  "  aloud  to  her  mother  who 
hked  occasionally  to  flavor  her  knitting  with  Hterature  and  shP 
began  now  to  revolve  a  passage  from  it,  describing  the  upper 
class  of  the  last  century,  which  had  struck  that  morning  on  her 
quick  retentive  memory:    "'A  few  thousand  people  wh^ 

2  ttt  n  ^f^.  ^T"^^'  '-^^  i''  °ot  run  so? 

-  and  that  aU  outside  their  own  fraternity  were  un worth  v 
of  notice  or  criticism,  bestowed  upon  each  other  an  amount  of 
attention  quite  inconceivable.  .  .  .  Within  the  charmed 
precincts  there  prevailed  an  easy  and  natural  mode  of  inter- 
course, m  some  respects  singularly  delightful.'  Such  for  in 
stance,  as  the  Duke  of  Sedburgh  was  master  off  Well  it  was 
worth  while,  perhaps,  to  have  gained  an  experience  even  at  the 
expense  of  certain  illusions,  as  to  the  manners  of  dukes  and- 
and-as  to  the  constancy  of  friends.  But  never  again--never 
agam!  said  the  impetuous  inner  voice.  "I  have  my  world 
—they  theirs !"  ^  "wi^u 

But  why  so  strong  a  flood  of  bitterness  against  our  poor  up- 
per class  so  well  mtentioned  for  all  its  occasional  lack  of  lucid- 
ity, should  have  arisen  in  so  young  a  breast  it  is  a  little  difficult 
for  the  most  conscientious  biographer  to  explain  She  ha ,1 
partners  to  her  heart's  desire;  young  Lord  Waynflete  used  hi^ 
utmost  arts  upon  her  to  persuade  her  that  at  least  half  a  dozen 
numbers  of  the  regular  programme  were  extras  and  therefore 
at  his  disposal;  and  when  royalty  supped,  it  was  graciouslv 
pleased  to  ordain  that  Lady  Helen  and  h^r  two  companSns 
should  sup  behind  the  same  folding-doors  as  itself,  wMe  be- 
yond these  doors  surged  the  inferior  crowd  of  persons  who  had 

Jr/Jrf  ^r!?^  ^'^  ^-^^^  highnesses,-  and 

had  so  far  been  held  worthy  neither  to  dance  nor  to  eat  in  the 
same  room  with  them.  But  in  vain.  Eose  still  felt  herself 
for  ail  her  laughmg  outward  insouciance,  a  poor,  bruised  help- 
less chattel,  trodden  under  the  heel  of  a  ;orld  wLich  was  inli 
erably  powerful,  rich,  and  self-satisfied,  the  odious  product  of 
ramily  arrangements." 

I^S  l^^'''''^"  f,*  ^^'J""^^  ^*  r^y^l        as  herself. 

Beside  him  was  the  thm,  tall  debutante.  "  She  is  like  one  of 
the  Gainsborough  princesses,"  thought  Rose,  studying  her  with 


Q34  BOBBBT  ELSMERB. 

involuntary  admiration.  "  Of  course  it  is  all  plain.  He  will 
get  everything  he  wants,  and  a  Lady  Florence  into  the  bargain. 
Radical,  indeed!  What  nonsense !" 

Then  it  startled  her  to  find  that  the  eyes  of  Lady  Florence  s 
neighbor  were,  as  it  seemed,  on  herself;  or  was  he  merely  nod- 
ding to  Lady  Helen?-and  she  began  immediately  to  give  a 
smiling  attention  to  the  man  on  her  left. 

An  hour  later  she  and  Agnes  and  Lady  Helen  were  descend- 
ing the  great  staircase  on  their  way  to  their  carnage.  The 
morning  light  was  flooding  through  the  chmks  of  the  carefully 
veiled  windows;LadyHelenwasyawningbehindhertmywhite 

hand,  her  eyes  nearly  asleep.  But  the  two  sisters,  who  had  not 
W  up  tiUthree,  on  fourpreceding  nights,  ^ike  their  chaperon, 
were  still  almost  as  fresh  as  the  flowers  massed  m  the  ball  be- 

"  Ah,  there  is  Hugh !"  cried  Lady  Helen.   "  How  I  hope  he 
has  foand  the  carriage!" 

At  that  moment  Rose  slipped  on  a  spray  of  gardema  which 
had  dropped  from  the  bouquet  of  some  predecessor.  To  pre^ 
vent  herself  from  falling  down-stairs,  she  caught  hold  of  the 
stem  of  a  brazen  chandelier  fixed  in  the  balustrade.  It  saved 
her,  but  she  gave  her  arm  a  most  painful  wrench,  and  kaned 
Ump  and  white,  against  the  railing  of  the  stairs.  Lad>  Helen 
turned  at  Agnes's  exclamation,  but  before  she  could  speak,  as 
it  seemed,  Mr.  Flaxraan,  who  had  been  standing  talking  just 
below  them,  was  on  the  stairs.  ,    ,  ,       •  „  t 

"You  have  hurt  your  arm?  Don't  speak-take  mine.  I-et 
me  eet  vou  down  stairs  out  of  the  crush." 

She  was  too  far  gone  to  resist,  and  when  she  was  mistress  of 
herself  again  she  found  herself  in  the  library  with  some  w^ter 
in  her  hand  which  Mr.  Flaxman  had  just  put  there. 

" Is  it  the  playing  hand?"  said  Lady  Helen,  anxiously.  ^ 
"No,"  said  Rose,  trying  to  laugh;  "the  bowing  elbow. 
And  she  raised  it,  but  with  a  contortion  of  pain^ 

"  Don't  raise  it,"  he  said,  peremptorily.  "  We  will  have  a 
doctor  here  in  a  moment,  and  have  it  bandaged 

He  disappeared.  Rose  tried  to  sit  up,  seized  with  a  f  rantK! 
longing  to  disobey  him,  and  get  off  before  he  returned.  Sting- 
ing S  girl's  mind  was  the  sense  that  it  might  perfectly 
well  seem  to  him  a  planned  appeal  to  his  pity. 

"Agnes,  help  me  up,"  she  said,  with  a  Ixttl*  involuntary, 
groan;  "  I  shall  be  better  at  home," 


KOBERT  ELSMEEE. 


685 


But  both  Lady  Helen  and  Agnes  laughed  her  to  scorn,  and 
she  lay  back  once  more  overwhelmed  by  fatigue  and  f aintness 
A  few  more  minutes,  and  a  doctor  appeared,  caught  by  good 
luck  in  the  next  street.  He  pronounced  it  a  severe  muscular 
strain,  but  nothing  more;  applied  a  lotion  and  improvised  a 
sling.  Eose  consulted  him  anxiously  as  to  the  interference  with 
her  playing. 

''A  week,"  he  said;    no  more,  if  you  are  careful." 

Her  pale  face  brightened.  Her  art  had  seemed  specially 
dear  to  her  of  late. 

*'Hugh  !"  called  Lady  Helen,  going  to  the  door.  '^Now  we 
are  ready  for  the  carriage." 

Eose,  leaning  on  Agnes,  walked  out  into  the  hall.  They 
found  him  thore  waiting. 

''The  carriage  is  here,"  he  said,  bending  toward  her  with 
a  look  and  tone  which  so  stirred  the*  fluttered  nerves  that 
the  sense  of  faintness  stole  back  upon  her.  Let  me  take  you 
to  it." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  coldly,  but  by  a  superhuman  effort; 
my  sister's  help  is  quite  enough." 

He  followed  them  with  Lady  Helen.  At  the  carriage  door  the 
sisters  hesitated  a  moment.  Eose  was  helpless  without  a  right 
hand.  A  little  imperative  movement  from  behind  displaced 
Agnes,  and  Eose  felt  herself  hoisted  in  by  a  strong  arm.  She 
sunk  into  the  further  corner.  The  glow  of  the  dawn  caught 
her  white,  delicate  features,  the  curls  on  her  temples,  all  the 
silken  confusion  of  her  dress.  Hugh  Flaxman  put  in  Agnes  and 
his  sister,  said  something  to  Agnes  about  coming  to  inquire, 
and  raised  his  hat.  Eose  caught  the  quick  force  and  intensity 
of  his  eyes,  and  then  closed  her  own,  lost  in  a  languid  swoon  of 
pain,  memory,  and  resentful  wonder. 

Flaxman  walked  away  down  Park  Lane  through  the  chill 
morning  quietness,  the  gathering  light  striking  over  the  houses 
beside  him  on  to  the  misty  stretches  of  the  park.  His  hat  was 
over  bis  eyes,  his  hands  thrust  into  his  pockets ;  a  close  observer 
v^ould  have  noticed  a  certain  trembling  of  the  lips.  It  was  but 
a  few  seconds  since  her  young  warm  beauty  had  been  for  an  in- 
stant in  his  arms;  his  whole  being  was  shaken  by  it,  and  by 
that  last  look  of  hers.  Have  I  gone  too  far?"  he  asked  him- 
self, anxiously.  "  Is  it  divinely  true—already —that  she  resents 
being  left  to  herself?  Oh,  little  rebel !  You  tried  your  best  not 
to  let  me  see.   But  you  ivere  angi  \  tou  were  I  Now,  then,  how 


636 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


to  proceed?  She  is  all  fire,  all  character;  I  rejoice iu  it.  Sho 
will  give  me  trouble;  so  much  the  better.  Poor  little  hurt 
thing !  the  fight  is  only  beginning ;  but  I  will  make  her  do  pen- 
ance some  day  for  all  that  loftiness  to-night." 

If  these  reflections  betray  to  the  reader  a  certain  masterful 
note  of  confidence  in  Mr.  Flaxman's  mind,  he  will  perhaps  find 
small  cause  to  regret  that  Rose  did  give  him  a  great  deal  of 
trouble. 

Nothing  could  have  been  more    salutary,"  to  use  his  own 
word,  than  the  dance  she  led  him  during  the  next  three  weeks,  i 
She  provoked  him  indeed  at  moments  so  much  that  he  was  a 
hundred  times  on  the  point  of  trying  to  seize  his  kingdom  of  > 
heaven  by  violence,  of  throwing  himself  upon  her  with  a  tem- 
pest shock  of  reproach  and  appeal.    But  some  secret  instinct 
restrained  him.   She  was  willful,  she  was  capricious;  she  had 
a  real  and  powerful  distraction  in  her  art.   He  must  be  patient  • 
and  risk  Qothing.  ' 

He  suspected,  too,  what  was  the  truth— that  Lady  Charlotte 
was  doing  harm.  Rose,  indeed,  had  grown  so  touchily  sensitive 
that  she  found  offense  in  almost  every  word  of  Lady  Charlotte's  i 
about  her  nephew.  Why  should  the  apparently  casual  remarks " 
of  the  aunt  bear  so  constantly  on  the  subject  of  the  nephew's 
social  importance?  Rose  vowed  to  herself  that  she  needed  no 
reminder  of  that  station  whereunto  it  had  pleased  God  to  call 
her,  and  that  Lady  Charlotte  might  spare  herself  all  those  anx- 
ieties and  reluctances  which  the  girl's  quick  sense  detected,  in 
sp'ite  of  the  invitations  so  freely  showered  on  Lerwick  Gardens. 

The  end  of  it  all  was  that  Hugh  Flaxman  found  himself  again 
driven  into  a  corner.  At  the  bottom  of  him  was  still  a  confi- 
dence that  would  not  yield.  Was  it  possible  that  he  had  ever 
given  her  some  tiny,  involuntary  glimpse  of  it,  and  that  but  for  , 
that  glimpse  she  would  have  let  him  make  his  peace  much 
more  easily?  At  any  rate,  now  he  felt  himself  at  the  end  of 
his  resources. 

"I  must  change  the  venue,"  he  said  to  himself;  decidedly 
I  must  change  the  venue." 

So  by  the  end  of  June  he  had  accepted  an  invitation  to  fish 
in  Norway  with  a  friend,  and  was  gone.  Rose  received  the 
news  with  a  callousness  which  made  even  Lady  Helen  want  to 
shake  her. 

On  the  eve  of  his  journey,  however,  Hugh  Flaxman  had  at 
last  confessed  himself  to  Catherine  and  Robert.   His  obvioufi 

I 


KOBERT  ELSMERE. 


637 


pKght  made  any  further  scruples  on  theix  part  futile,  and  what 
they  had  they  gave  him  in  the  way  of  sympathy.  Also  Eobert, 
gathering  that  he  already  knew  much,  and  without  betraying 
any  confidence  of  Rose's,  gave  him  a  hint  or  two  on  the  sub- 
ject of  Langham.  But  more  not  the  friendliest  mortal  could 
I  do  for  him,  ind  Flaxman  went  off  into  exile  announcing  to  a 
!  mocking  Elsmere  that  he  should  sit  pensive  on  the  banks  of 
Norwegian  rivers  till  fortune  had  had  time  to  change. 

BOOK  VIL—OAIN  AND  LOSS. 

CHAPTER  XL VI. 

A  HOT  July  had  well  begun,  but  still  Elsmere  was  toiling  on 
in  Elgood  Street,  and  could  not  persuade  himself  to  think  of  a 
holiday.  Catherine  and  the  child  he  had  driven  away  more 
than  once,  but  the  claims  upon  himself  were  becoming  so  ab- 
sorbing he  did  not  know  how  to  go  even  for  a  few  weeks.  There 
were  certain  individu'ils  in  particular  who  depended  on  him 
from  day  to  day .  One  was  Charles  Richards's  widow.  The  poor, 
desperate  creature  had  put  herself  abjectly  into  Elsmere's 
hands.  He  had  sent  her  to  an  aslyum,  where  she  had  been 
kindly  and  skillfully  treated,  and  after  six  weeks'  abstinence 
she  had  just  returned  to  her  children,  and  was  being  watched 
by  himself  and  a  competent  woman  neighbor,  whom  he  had 
succeeded  in  interesting  in  the  case. 

Another  was  a  young  ''secret  springer,"  to  use  the  mysteri- 
ous terms  of  the  trade— Robson  by  name— whom  Elsmere  had 
originally  known  as  a  clever  workman  belonging  to  the  watch- 
making  colony,  and  a  diligent  attenda!ft  from  the  beginning  on 
the  Sunday  lectures.  He  was  now  too  ill  to  leave  his  lodgings, 
and  his  sickly  pessimist  personality  had  established  a  special 
hold  on  Robert.  He  was  dying  of  tumor  in  the  throat,  and  had 
become  a  torment  to  himself  and  a  disgust  to  others.  There  was 
a  spark  of  wayward  genius  in  him,  however,  which  enabled 
him  to  bear  his  ills  with  a  mixture  of  savage  humor  and  clear- 
eyed  despair.  In  general  outlook  he  was  much  akin  to  the  au- 
thor of  the  ''City  of  Dreadful  Night,"  whose  poems  he  read; 
the  loathsome  spectacles  of  London  had  filled  him  with  a  kind 
of  somber  energy  of  revolt  against  ail  that  is.  And  now  that 
he  could  only  work  intermittently,  he  w^ould  sit  brooding  for 
hours,  startling  the  fellow-workmen  who  came  in  to  see  him 


g38  ROBERT  ELSMERB. 

with  ghastly  Heine-like  jokes  on  his  own  hideous  disease,  Uv-  { 
ing  no  one  exactly  knew  how,  though  it  was  supposed  on  sup- 
plies sent  him  by  a  shop-keeper  uncle  in  the  country,  and  con- 
stantly on  the  verge,  as  all  his  acquaintances  felt,  of  some 
ingenious  expedient  or  other  for  putting  an  end  to  himself  and 
his  troubles.  He  was  unmarried,  and  a  misogynist  to  boot. 
No  woman  willingly  went  near  him,  and  he  tended  himself. 
How  Robert  had  gained  any  hold  upon  him  no  one  could  guess. 
But  from  the  moment  when  Elsmere,  struck  in  the  lecture-room 
by  the  pallid,  ugly  face  and  swathed  neck,  began  regularly  to 
eo  and  see  him,  the  elder  man  felt  instinctively  that  virtue  had 
gone  out  of  him,  and  that  in  some  subtle  way  yet  another  life 
had  become  pitif  uUy,  silently  dependent  on  his  own  stock  of 
strength  and  comfort.  . 

His  lecturing  and  teaching  work  also  was  becoming  more  and 
more  the  instrument  of  far-reaching  change,  and  tberefore 
more  and  more  difficult  to  leave.  The  thoughts  of  God,  the 
image  of  Jesus,  which  were  active  and  fruitful  in  his  own  mmd, 
had  been  gradually  passing  from  one  into  the  many,  and  Rob- 
ert watched  the  sacred  transforming  emotion,  once  nurtured  at 
his  own  heart,  now  working  among  the  crowd  of  men  and 
women  his  fiery  speech  had  gathered  round  him,  with  a  trem- 
bling iov  an  humble  prostration  of  the  soul  before  the  Eternal 
Truth  no  words  can  fitly  describe.  With  an  ever-increasing 
detachment  of  mind  from  the  objects  of  self  and  sense,  he  felt 
himself  a  tool  in  the  Great  Workman's  hand.  "Accomplish 
rhv  ourposes  in  me,"  was  the  cry  of  his  whole  heart  and  Me; 
"use  me  to  the  utmost;  spend  every  faculty  I  have,  oh,  Thou 
whomoldestmen!'" 

.  But  in  the  end  his  work^tself  drove  hm  away.  A  certain 
memorable  Saturday  evening  brought  it  about.  It  had  been 
his  custom  of  late  to  spend  an  occasional  evenmg  hour  after  his 

ni^ht-school  work  in  the  North  R  Club,  of  which  he  was 

now  bv  invitation  a  member.  Here,  in  one  of  the  inner  rooms, 
he  would  stand  against  the  mantel-piece  chatting,  smoking 
often  with  the  men.  Everything  came  up  in  turn  to  be  dis- 
cussed; and  Robert  was  at  least  as  ready  to  learn  from  the 
practical  workers  about  him  as  to  teach.  But  m  general  these 
informal  talks  and  debates  became  the  supplement  of  the  bun- 
day  lectures.  Here  he  met  Andrews  and  the  Secularist  crew 
face  to  face;  here  he  grappled  in  Socratic  fashion  with  objec- 
tions and  diflRcuJfcies,  throwing  into  the  task  all  his  charm  and 


ROBEBT  ELSMERE. 


639 


all  his  knowledge,  a  man  at  once  of  no  pretensions  and  of  un- 
failing natural  dignity.  Nothing,  so  far,  had  served  his  cause 
and  his  influence  so  well  as  these  moments  of  free  discursive 
intercourse.  The  mere  orator,  the  mere  talker,  indeed^  would 
never  have  gained  any  permanent  hold;  but  the  life  behind 
gave  weight  to  every  acute  or  eloquent  word,  and  importance 
even  to  those  sallies  of  a  boyish  enthusiasm  which  were  still 
common  enough  in  him. 

He  had  already  visited  the  club  once  during  tlie  week  pre- 
ceding this  Saturday.   On  both  occasions  there  was  much  talk 
of  the  growing  popularity  and  efficiency  of  the  Elgood  Street 
work,  of  the  numbers  attending  the  lectures,  the  story-telling, 
the  Sunday-school,  and  of  the  way  in  which  the  attractions  of 
it  had  spread  into  other  quartet's  of  the  parish,  exciting  there, 
especially  among  the  clergy  of  St.  Wilfrid's,  an  anxious  and 
critical  attention.   The  conversation  on  Saturday  night,  how- 
ever, took  a  turn  of  its  own.   Robert  felt  in  it  a  new  and  curi- 
ous  note  of  responsibility.   The  men  present  were  evidently  be- 
ginning to  regard  the  work  as  their  work  also,  and  its  success 
as  their  interest.   It  was  perfectly  natural,  for  not  only  had 
most  of  them  been  his  supporters  and  hearers  from  the  begin- 
ning, but  some  of  them  were  now  actually  teaching  in  the  night- 
school  or  helping  in  the  variour  hranche's  of  the  large  and  over- 
flowing boys'  club.  He  listened  to  them  for  awhile  in  his  favor- 
ite attitude,  leaning  against  the  mantel-piece,  throwing  in  a 
word  or  twomow  and  then  as  to  how  this  or  that  part  of  the 
work  might  be  amended  or  expanded.   Then  suddenly  a  kind 
of  inspiration  seemed  to  pass  from  them  to  him.   Bending  for- 
ward as  the  talk  dropped  a  moment,  he  asked  them,  with  an 
accent  more  emphatic  than  usual,  whether  in  view  of  this  col- 
laboration of  theirs,  which  was  becoming  more  valuable  to  him 
and  his  original  helpers  every  week,  it  was  not  time  for  a  new 
departure. 

"  Suppose  I  drop  my  dictatorship,"  he  said,  suppose  we  set 
up  parliamentary  government,  are  you  ready  to  take  your  share? 
Are  you  ready  to  combine,  to  commit  yourselves?  Are  you 
ready  for  an  effort  to  turn  this  work  into  something  lasting  and 
organic?" 

The  men  gathered  round  him  smoked  on  in  silence  for  a 
minute.  Old  Macdonald,  who  had  been  sitting  contentedly  puf- 
fing away  in  a  corner  pecuHarly  his  own,  and  dedicated  to  the 
glorification—in  broad  Berwickshire— of  the  experimental  phil- 


(540  ROBEET  KLSMEUE. 

osophers,  laid  down  his  pipe  and  put  on  his  spectacles,  that  h» 
might  grasp  the  situation  better.  Then  Lestrange,  m  a  dry, 
cautious  way,  asked  Elsmere  to  explain  himself  further. 

Robert  began  to  pace  up  and  down,  talking  out  his  thought, 
his  eye  kindling.  . 

But  in  a  minute  or  two  he  stopped  abruptly,  with  one  of 
those  striking  rapid  gestures  characteristic  of  him. 

' '  But  no  mere  social  and  educational  body,  mind  you !  and 
his  bright  commanding  look  swept  round  the  circle.  ''  A  good 
thing  surely,  '  yet  is  there  better  than  it.'  The  real  difficulty 
of  every  social  effort-you  know  it  and  I  know  it-Ues,  not  in 
the  planning  of  the  work,  but  in  the  kindling  of  will  and  passion 
enough  to  carry  it  through.  And  that  can  only  be  done  by  re- 
ligion—by faith."  •,  ,  V  J 
He  went  back  to  his  old  leaning  attitude,  his  hands  behind 
him  The  men  gazed  at  him-at  the  slim  figure,  the  trans- 
parent, changing  face-with  a  kind  of  fascination,  but  were 
still  silent,  tiU  Macdonald  said,  slowly,  taking  off  his  glasses 
again  and  clearing  his  throat:  ,r. 

"You'll  be  aboot  starrtin'a  new  church,  I'm  thmkm,  Mis- 
ther  Elsmere?"  _  _ ,  . 

"  If  you  like,"  said  Robert,  impetuously.  i  have  no  fear 
of  the  gi-eat  words.  You  can  do,nothing  by  despising  the  past 
and  its  products;  you  can  also  dfb  nothing  by  being  too  much 
afraid  of  them,  by  letting  them  choke  and  stifle  your  own  hie 
Let  the  new  wine  have  its  new  bottles  if  it  must,  and  never  nund 
words.  Be  content  to  be  a  new  '  sect,'  '  conventicle,'  or  what 
not,  so  long  as  you  feel  that  you  are  something  with  a  life  and 
purpose  of  its  own,  in  this  tangle  of  a  world." 

Again  he  paused  with  knit  brows,  thinking.  Lestrange  sat 
with  his  elbows  on  hiskn(«s  studying  him,  the  spare,  gray  hair 
brushed  back  tightly  from  the  bony  face,  on  the  hps  the 
sUghtest  Voltairean  smile.  Perhaps  it  was  the  coolness  of  his 
look  which  insensibly  influenced  Robert's  next  words. 

"However,  I  don't  imagine  we  should  call  ourselves  a 
church!  Something  much  humbler  will  do,  if  you  choose  ever 
to  make  anything  of  these  suggestions  of  mine.  '  Association, 
'society,'  'brotherhood,'  what  you  wfll!  But  always,  if  I  can 
persuade  you,  with  something  in  the  name,  and  everything  m 
the  body  itself,  to  show  that  for  the  members  of  it  life  rests 
stm,  as  all  life  worth  having  has  ever-  where  rested  on  trust  and 
memory !-trust  in  the  God  of  experience  and  history  ^  memory 


BOBERT  ELSMERE. 


641 


of  that  God's  work  in  man,  by  which  alone  we  know  Him  and 
-can  approach  Him.  Well,  of  that  work— I  have  tried  to  prove 
it  to  you  a  thousand  times— Jesus  of  Nazareth  has  become  to 
us,  by  the  evolution  of  circumstances,  the  most  moving,  the 
most  efficacious  of  all  types  and  epitomes.  We  have  made  our 
protest— we  are  daily  making  it— in  the  face  of  society,  against 
the  fictions  and  overgrowths  which  at  the  present  time  are  ex- 
cluding Him  more  and  more  from  human  love.  But  now,  sup- 
pose we  turn  our  backs  on  negation,  and  have  done  with  'mere 
denial!  Suppose  we  throw  all  our  energies  into  the  practical 
building  of  a  new  house  of  faith,  the  gathering  and  organizing 
of  a  new  Company  of  Jesus !" 

Other  men  had  been  stealing  in  while  he  was  speaking.  The 
little  room  was  nearly  full.  It  was  strange,  the  contrast  be- 
tween the  squalid  modernness  of  the  scene,  with  its  incongruous 
sights  and  sounds,  the  club-room,  painted  in  various  hideous 
*  shades  of  cinnamon  and  green,  the  smoke,  the  lines  and  groups 
of  working-men  in  every  sort  of  working  dress,  the  occasional 
rumbling  of  huge  wagons  past  the  window,  the  click  of  glasses 
and  cups  in  the  refreshment  bar  outside,  and  this  stir  of 
spiritual  passion  which  any  competent  observer  might  have  felt 
sweeping  through  the  little  crowd  as  Robert  spoke,  connecting 
what  was  passing  there  with  all  that  is  sacred  and  beautiful  in 
the  history  of  the  world. 

After  another  silence  a  young  fellow,  in  a  shabby  velvet  coat, 
stood  up.  He  was  commonly  known  among  his  fellow-potters 
as  the  hartist,"  because  of  his  long  hair,  his  little  affectations 
of  dress,  ^nd  hi^  aesthetic  susceptibilities  generally.  The  wits 
of  the  club  made  him  their  target,  but  the  teasing  of  him  that 
went  on  was  more  or  less  tempered  by  the  knowledge  that  in 
his  own  queer  way  he  had  brought  up  and  educated  two  young 
sisters  almost  from  infancy,  and  that  his  sweetheart  had  been 
killed  before  his  eyes  a  year  before  in  a  railway  accident. 

*'I  dun  know,"  he  said,  in  a  high  treble  voice,  ''I  dun  know- 
whether  I  speak  for  anybody  but  myself— very  likely  not;  but 
what  I  do  know,"  and  he  raised  his  ri^ht  hand  and  shook  it 
with^  a  gesture  of  curious  felicity,  is  this— what  Mr.  Elsmere 
starts  I'll  join;  where  he  goes  iii  go;  what's  good  enough  for 
bim's  good  enough  for  me.  He's  put  a  new  heart  and  a  new 
stomach  into  me,  and  what  I've  got  he  shaU  have,  whenever  it 
pleases  'im  to  call  for  it!  So  if  he  wants  to  run  a  new  thing 
against  or  alongside  the  old  uns,  and  he  wants  me  to  help  hinj 


542  ROBBBT  ELSMBHB. 

with  it-I  don't  know  as  I'm  very  clear  what  he's  driving  at, 
nor  what  good  I  can  do'im-but  when  Tom  Wheeler's  asked 
for  he'll  be  there!" 

A  deep  murmur,  rising  almost  into  a  shout  of  assent,  ran 
through  the  little  assembly.  Robert  bent  f orwai-d ,  his  eyes  ghs- 
tening  a  moved  acknowledgment  in  his  look  and  gesture.  But 
in  reality  a  pang  ran  through  the  fiery  soul.  It  was  ' '  the  per- 
sonal  estimate,"  after  all,  that  was  shaping  their  future  and 
his  and  the  idealist  was  up  in  armsfor  his  idea,  subhmely  jeal- 
ous lest  any  mere  personal  fancy  should  usurp  its  power  and 

A  certain  amount  of  desultory  debate  followed  as  to  the  pos- 
sible outUnes  of  a  possible  organization,  and  as  to  the  observ- 
ances which  might  be  devised  to  mark  its  rehgious  character. 
As  it  flowed  on  the  atmosphere  grew  more  and  more  electric. 
A  new  passion,  though  still  timid  and  awe-stmck,  seemed  to 
shine  from  the  looks  of  the  men  standing  or  sittmg  round  the 
central  figure.  Even  Lestrange  lost  his  smile  under  the  press- 
ure of  that  strange,  subdued  expectancy  about  him;  and  when 
Eobert  walked  homeward,  about  midnight,  there  weighed  upon 
him  an  almost  awful  sense  of  crisis,  of  an  expanding  future. 

He  let  himself  in  softly  and  went  into  his  study..  There  he 
sunk  into  a  chair  and  fainted.  He  was  probably  not  uncon- 
scious very  long,  but  after  he  had  struggled  back  to  his  senses, 
and  was  lying  stretched  on  the  sofa  among  the  books  with 
vsrhich  it  was  Uttered,  the  solitary  candle  in  the  big  room 
throwing  weird  shadows  about  him,  a  moment  of  black  de- 
pression overtook  him.  It  was  desolate  and  terrible,  hke  a 
prescience  of  death.  How  was  it  he  had  come  to  feel  so  ill? 
Suddenly,  as  he  looked  back  over  the  preceding  weeks,  the 
phvsical  weakness  and  disturbance  which  had  marked  them, 
and  which  he  had  struggled  through,  paying  as  Uttle  heed  as 
possible,  took  shape,  specter-Uke,  in  his  mind. 

And  at  the  same  moment  a  passionate  rebelhon  against 
weakness  and  disablement  arose  in  him.  He  sat  up  dizzily, 
his  head  in  his  hands. 

«  Rest-strength,"  he  said  to  himself,  with  strong  inner  re- 
solve, "  for  the  work's  sake !"  -         X  +1, 

He  dragged  himself  up  to  bed  and  said  nothing  to  Catherine 
tiU  the  morning.  Then,  with  boyish  brightness,  he  asked  her 
to  take  him  and  the  babe  off  without  delay  to  the  Norman 
coast,  vowing  that  he  would  lounge  and  idle  for  six  whole 


EOBBET  ELSMESB. 


643 


weeks  if  she  would  let  him.  Shocked  by  his  looks,  she  gradu- 
ally got  from  him  the  story  of  the  night  before.  As  he  told 
it,  his  swoon  was  a  mere  untoward  incident  and  hindrance  in 
a  spiritual  drama,  the  thrill  of  which,  while  he  described  it, 
passed  even  to  her.  The  contrast,  however,  between  the  strong 
hopes  she  felt  pulsing  through  him,  and  his  air  of  fragility 
and  exhaustion,  seemed  to  melt  the  heart  within  her,  and 
make  her  whole  being,  she  hardly  knew  why,  one  sensitive 
dread.  She  sat  beside  him,  her  head  laid  against  his  shoulder, 
oppressed  by  a  strange  and  desolate  sense  of  her  compara- 
tively small  share  in  this  ardent  life.  In  spite  of  his  tender- 
ness and  devotion,  she  felt  often  as  though  he  were  no  longer 
hers— as  though  a  craving  hungry  world,  whose  needs  were 
all  dark  and  unintelligible  to  her,  were  asking  him  from  her, 
claiming  to  use  as  roughly  and  prodigaUy  as  it  pleased  the 
quick  mind  and  dehcate  frame. 

As  to  the  schemes  developing  round  him,  she  could  not  take 
them  in  whether  for  protest  or  sympathy.  She  could  think 
only  of  where  to  go,  what  doctor  to  consult,  how  she  could 
persuade  him  to  stay  away  long  enough. 

There  was  little  surprise  in  Elgood  Street  when  Elsmere  an- 
nounced  that  he  must  go  off  for  awhile.  He  so  announced  it 
that  everybody  who  heard  him  understood  that  his  temporary 
withdrawal  was  to  be  the  mere  preparation  for  a  great  effort 
—the  vigil  before  the  tourney;  and  the  eager  friendliness  with 
which  he  was  met  sent  him  off  in  good  heart. 

Three  or  four  days  later  he,  Catherine  and  Mary  were  at 
Petites  Dalles,  a  h>tle  place  on  the  Norman  coast,  near 
Fecamp,  with  wLich  he  had  first  made  acquaintance  years  be- 
fore, when  he  was  at  Oxford. 

Here  all  that  in  London  had  been  oppressive  in  the  August 
heat  suffered  '^a  sea  change,"  and  became  so  much  matter  for 
physical  delight.  It  was  fiercely  hot,  indeed.  Every  morn- 
ing, between  five  and  six  o'clock,  Catherine  would  standby  the 
^little  white-veiled  window,  in  the  dewy  silence,  to  watch  the 
eastern  shadows  spreading  sharply  already  into  a  blazing 
world  of  sun,  and  see  the  tall  poplar  just  outside  shooting  into 
a  quivering,  changeless  depth  of  blue.  Then,  as  early  as  pos- 
sible, they  would  sally  forth  before  the  glare  became  imbear- 
able.  The  first  event  of  the  day  was  always  Mary's  batlie, 
Which  gradually  became  a  spectacle  for  the  whole  beach,  so  in- 


^44  EOBBET  EL8MBEE. 

genious  were  the  blandishments  of  the  father  who  wooed  hei 
into  the  warm  sandy  shallows,  and  so  beguiling  the  glee  and 
pluck  of  the  two  year-old  English  Mbe.  By  eleven  the  heat 
out  of  doors  grew  intolerable,  and  they  would  stroll  back- 
father  and  mother  and  trailing  child-past  the  hotels  on  the 
plage,  along  the  irregular  village  lane,  to  the  little  house  where 
they  had  established  themselves,  with  Mary's  nurse  and  a 
French  bomie  to  look  after  them ;  would  find  the  green  wooden 
shutters  drawn  close;  the  dejeuner  waitmg  for  them  in  the 
cool  bare  room;  and  the^  scent  of  the  coffee  penetratmg  from 
the  kitchen,  where  the  two  maids  kept  up  a  dumb  but  per- 
petual warfare.  Then  afterward  Mary,  emerging  from  her  sun- 
bonnet  would  be  tumbled  into  her  white  bed  upstairs,  and 
lie,  a  flushed  image  of  sleep,  tm  the  gatter  of  her  Uttle  feet  on 
the  boards  which  alone  separated  one  story  from  the  other 
warned  mother  and  nurse  that  an  imp  of  mischief  was  let 
loose  agam.  Meanwhile  Eobert,  in  the  carpetless  salon,  would 
lie  back  in  the  rickety  arm-chair,  which  was  its  only  luxury 
lazily  dozing  and  dreaming,  Balzac,  perhaps,  in  his  hand,  but 
quite  another  comMie  humaine  unrolling  itself  vaguely  mean- 
while in  the  contriving  optimist  mind.  •        .   J  , 

Petites  Dalles  was  not  fashionable  yet,  though  it  aspired  to 
be;  but  it  could  boast  of  a  deputy,  and  a  senator,  and  a  pro- 
fessor of  the  College  de  France,  as  good  as  any  at  Etretat,  a 
tired  journalist  or  two,  and  a  sprinkling  of  Eouen  men  of 
business.  Eobert  soon  made  friends  among  them,  more  suo, 
by  dint  of  a  rough-and-ready  French,  spoken  with  the  most 
unblushing  accent  imagmable,  and  lounged  along  the  sands 
through  many  an  amusing  and  sociable  hour  with  one  or 
other  of  his  new  acquaintances. 

But  by  the  evening  husband  and  wife  would  leave  the 
crowded  beach,  and  mount  by  some  tortuous  dusty  way  onto 
the  high  plateau  through  which  was  cleft  far  below  the  wooded 
fissure  of  the  village.  Here  they  seemed  to  have  cUmbed  the 
bean-stalk  into  the  new  world.  The  rich  Normandy  country 
lay  aU  round  them-the  corn-fields,  the  hedgeless  tracts  of 
white-flowered  lucerne  or  crimson  clover,  dotted  by  the  orchard 
trees  which  make  one  vast  garden  of  the  land  as  one  sees'it 
from  a  height.  On  the  fringe  of  the  chff,  where  the  soU  be- 
came too  thin  and  barren  even  for  French  cultivation,  there 
was  a  wild  belt,  half  heather,  half  tangled  grass  and  flower- 
growth,  which  the  English  pair  loved  for  their  own  special 


KOBERT  ELSMEKE. 


645 


reasons.  Bathed  in  light,  cooled  by  the  evening  wind,  the 
patches  of  heather  glowing,  the  tall  grasses  swaying  in  the 
breeze,  there  were  moments  when  its  wide,  careless,  dusty 
beauty  reminded  them  poignantly,  and  yet  most  sweetly,  of 
the  home  of  their  first  unclouded  happiness,  of  the  Surrey 
commons  and  wildernesses. 

One  evening  they  were  sitting  in  the  warm  dusk  by  the  edge 
of  a  little  dip  of  heather  sheltered  by  a  tuft  of  broom,  when 
suddenly  they  heard  the  purring  sound  of  the  night-jar,  and 
immediately  after  the  bird  itself  lurched  past  them,  and  as  it 
disappeared  into  the  darkness  they  caught  several  times  the 
characteristic  click  of  the  win^. 

Catherine  raised  her  hand  and  laid  it  on  Eobert's.  The  sud- 
den tears  dropped  on  to  her  cheeks. 

^'  Did  you  hear  it,  Robert?" 

He  drew  her  to  him.  These  involuntary  signs  of  an  abiding 
pain  in  her  always  smote  him  to  the  heart. 

'*Iam  not  unhappy,  Eobert,"  she  said  at  last,  raising  her 
head.  ' '  No ;  if  you  will  only  get  well  and  strong.  I  have  sub- 
mitted.  It  is  not  for  myself,  but—" 

For  what  then?  Merely  the  touchingness  of  mortal  things 
as  such?— of  youth,  of  hope,  of  memory? 

Choking  down  a  sob,  she  looked  seaward  over  the  curling 
flame-colored  waves,  while  he  held  her  hand  close  and  tender- 
ly. No—she  was  not  unhappy.  Something,  indeed,  had  gone 
forever  out  of  that  early  joy.  Her  life  had  been  caught  and 
nipped  in  the  great  inexorable  wheel  of  things.  It  would  go 
in  some  sense  maimed  to  the  end.  But  the  bitter  self-tort-uring 
of  that  first  endless  year  was  over.  Love,  and  her  husband, 
and  the  thousand  subtle  forces  of  a  changing  world  had  con- 
quered. She  would  live  and  die  steadfast  to  the  old  faiths. 
But  her  present  mind  and  its  outlook  was  no  more  the  mind  of 
her  early  married  life  than  the  Christian  philosophy  of  to-aay 
is  the  Christian  philosophy  of  the  Middle  Ages.  She  was  not 
conscious  of  change,  but  change  there  was.  She  had,  in  fact, 
undergone  that  dissociation  of  the  moral  judgment  from  a 
special  series  of  religious  formulae  which  is  the  crucial,  the 
epoch-making  fact  of  our  day.  ' '  U nbelief , "  says  the  orthodox 
preacher,  ''is  sin,  and  implies  it;"  and  while  he  speaks  the 
saint  in  the  unbeliever  gently  smiles  down  his  argument,  and 
suddenly,  in  the  rebel  of  yesterday  men  see  the  rightful  heir  of 
to-morrow. 


646 


BOBBBT  BLSMBBB. 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

Meanwhile  the  Leyburns  were  at  Burwood  again.  Rose's 
summer,  indeed,  was  much  varied  by  visits  to  country  houses 
-many  of  them  belonging  to  friends  and  acquamtances  oi  the 
Flaxman  family-by  concerts,  and  the  demands  of  several  new 
and  exciting  artistic  friendships.  But  she  was  seldom  loth  to 
come  back  to  the  little  bare  valley  and  the  gray-walled  house. 
Even  the  rain  which  poured  down  in  August,  quite  unabashed 
by  any  consciousness  of  fine  weather  elsewhere,  was  not  as  m- 
tolerable  to  her  as  in  past  days. 

The  girl  was  not  herself;  there  was  visible  in  her  not  only 
that  general  softening  and  deepening  of  character  which  had 
b"en  the  consequence  of  her  trouble  in  the  spring,  but  a  painiul 
ennui  she  could  hardly  disguise,  a  longing  for  she  knew  not 
what  She  was  beginning  to  take  the  homage  paid  to  her  gut 
and  her  beauty  with  a  quiet  dignity,  which  was  m  no  sense 
false  modesty,  but  impUed  a  certain  clearness  of  vision,  curious 
and  disquieting  in  so  young  and  dazzhng  a  creatore.  And 
when  she  came  home  from  her  travels  she  would  develop  a 
taste  for  long  walks,  breasting  the  mountains  in  rain  or  sun, 
penetrating  to  their  austerest  solitudes  alone,  as  though  haunt- 
ed by  that  orofound  saying  of  Obermann,  "  Man  is  not  made 
for  enjoyment  only-to  tristesse  fait  aussipartie  de  ses  vastes 

What,  indeed,  was  it  that  ailed  her?  In  her  lonely  mo> 
ments,  especiaHy  m  those  moments  among  the  high  fells,  be- 
side some  little  tarn  or  streamlet,  while  the  sheets  of  mist  swept 
by  her,  or  the  ?reat  clouds  dappled  the  spreading  sides  of  the 
hills,  she  thought  often  of  Langham-of  that  first  thrill  o. 
passion  which  had  passed  through  her,  delusive  and  abortive, 
like  one  of  those  first  thrills  of  spring  which  bring  out  the 
buds  only  to  provide  victims  for  the  frost.  Now  with  her 
again  "a  moral  east  wind  was  blowing."  The  passion  was 
gone  The  thought  of  Langham  stiU  roused  in  her  a  pity  that 
seemed  to  strain  at  her  heart-strings.  But  was  it  really  she, 
really  this  very  Rose,  who  had  rested  for  that  one  intoxicating 
instant  on  his  breast  ?  She  felt  a  sort  of  bitter  shame  over  her 
own  shallowness  of  feeUng.  She  must  surely  be  a  poor  creat- 
ure, else  how  could  such  a  thing  have  befallen  her  and  have 
left  so  little  trace  behind.  ,      ,         .  j 

And  then,  her  hand  dabbhng  in  the  water,  her  face  raised 


EOBBBT  BLSMEBE.  (547 

to  the  blind,  friendly  mountains,  she  would  go  dreaming  far 
afield.  Little  vignettes  of  London  would  come  and  go  on  the 
inner  retina;  smiles  and  sighs  wouJd  follow  one  another. 

"  Hoti)  kind  he  was  that  time  !  How  amusing  this  /" 
Ot,"How  provoking  he  was  that  afternoon!  how  cold  that 
evening!" 

Nothing  else— the  pronoun  remained  ambiguous. 
"I  want  a  friend  !"  she  said  to  herself  once  as  she  was  sit- 
•  tmg  far  up  in  the  bosom  of  High  Fell,  "I  want  a  friend  badly. 
Yet  my  lover  deserts  me,  and  I  send  awav  my  friend  i" 

One  afternoon  Mrs.  Thornburgh,  the  ^car,  and  Rose  were 
wandermg  round  the  church-yard  together,  enjoying  a  break 
of  sunny  weather  after  days  of  rain.   Mrs.  Thomburgh's  per- 
sonal accent,  so  to  speak,  had  grown  perhaps  a  Httle  more 
defined,  a  little  more  emphatic  even,  than  when  we  , first  knew 
her.   The  vicar,  on  the  other  hand,  was  a  trifle  grayer,  a  trifle 
more  submissive,  as  though  on  the  whole,  in  the  long  conjugal 
contest  of  life,  he  was  getting  clearly  worsted  as  the  years  went 
on.   But  the  performance  through  which  his  wife  was  now 
taking  him  tried  him  exceptionaUy,  and  she  only  kept  him  to 
It  with  difficulty.   She  had  had  an  attack  of  bronchitis  in  the 
spring,  and  was  still  somewhat  delicate-a  fact  which  to  his 
mmd  gave  her  an  unfair  advantage  of  him.   For  she  would 
ma,keuseof  itto  keep  constantly  before  him  ideas  which  he 
disliked,  and  in  which  he  considered  she  took  a  morbid  and 
unbecoming  pleasure.   The  vicar  was  of  opinion  that  when  his 
latter  end  overtook  him  he  should  meet  it  on  the  whole  as 
courageously  as  other  men.   But  he  was  altogether  averse  to 
dwelling  upon  it,  or  the  adjuncts  of  it,  beforehand.  Mrs 
rhornburgh,  however,  since  her  illness  had  awoke  to  that 
inquisitive  affectionate  interest  in  these  very  adjuncts  which 
many  women  feel.   And  it  was  extremely  disagreeable  to  the 
vicar. 

At  the  present  moment  she  was  engaged  in  choosing  the 
precise  spots  m  the  little  church  yard  where  it  seemed  toherit 
would  be  pleasant  to  rest.  There  was  one  comer  in  particular 
wmch  attracted  her,  and  she  stood  now  looking  at  it  with 
measuring  eyes  and  dissatisfied  mouth. 

William,  I  wish  you  would  come  here  and  help  me  i" 
The  vicar  took  no  notice,  but  went  on  talking  to  Eose 
William  !"  imperatively.  * 
The  vicar  turned  unwillingly. 


ROBERT  ELSMBRB. 

"  You  know,  William,  if  you  wouldn't  mindlying  with  your 
feet  that  way,  there  would  l>ejust  /oom  f or  ,f   J"*'  , 
course,  if  you  will  have  them  the  other  way-    The  shoul 
ders  in  the  old  black  silk  mantle  went  up,  and  the  gray  curls 

^'Se  Sritenance  showed  plainly  that  he  thought  the  ] 

''T^y^SyTjt:::X  "I  am  not  thinking  of  those 
thmJ  nor  do  I  wish  to  think  of  them.  Everythmg  has  its 
time  aind  place.^  it  is  close  on  tea,  and  Miss  Eose  says  she  must 

^'llrrThomburgh  again  shook  her  head,  this  time  with  a 

''Tou^.lfkm,'' she  said,  severely, ''as^^^^^^^ 
voung  man,  instead  of  being  turned  sixty-six  last  birth^day. 

And  again  she  measured  the  spaces  with  her  eye,  checking 
the  results  aloud.  But  the  vicar  was  obdurately  deaf.  He 
strolled  on  with  Eose,  who  was  chattering  f «  b^^^^b^jut  a  vi^t 
to  Manchester,  and  the  little  church  gate  clicked  behind  them 
Hearing  it,  Mrs.  Thomburgh  relaxed  her  measurements. 
They  were  only  really  interesting  to  her,  after  all,  when  the 
vicar  was  by.  She  hurried  after  them  as  fast  a»  her  short, 
squat  figure  would  allow,  and  stopped  midway  to  make  an  ex- 

^^^^  carriage  !"  she  said,  shading  her  eyes  with  a  very  phimp 
hand,  "  stopping  at  Greybarns  !" 

The  one  road  of  the  valley  was  visible  from  the  church-yard 
winding  along  the  bottom  of  the  shallow  green  trough  for  at 
least  two  miles.   Greybarns  was  a  farm-house  just  beyond  ^ 
Burwood,  about  half  a  mile  away.  ,    ,         ,  | 

Mrs.  Thomburgh  moved  on,  her  matronly  fa«e  aglow  witb  j 

'""''Siy  Jenkinson  taken  ill !"  she  said,  "Of  course,  that;s| 
Doctor  Baker  !  Well,  it's  to  be  hoped  it  won't  be  twms  thts 
time    But,  as  I  told  her  last  Sunday,  '  It's  constitutional,  my 
dear 'I  knew  a  woman  who  had  three  pairs!   Five  o clock 
now.   Well,  about  seven  it'll  be  worth  while  sending  to  m- 

*^"when  she  overtook  the  vicar  and  his  companion  she  began 
to  whisper  certain  particulai-s  into  the  ear  that  was  not  on 
Rose's  side.  The  vicar,  who,  like  Uncle  Toby,  ^^PJ^^^^f  ^.^^ 
a  fine  natural  modesty,  would  have  preferred  that  his  wife 


ROBERT  ELSMEJlE. 


64^ 


should  refrain  ?rom  whispering  on  these  topics  in  Rose's  pres- 
ence. But  he  submitted  lest  opposition  should  provoke  her  into 
still  more  audible  improprieties ;  and  Eose  walked  on  a  step  or 
two  in  front  of  the  pair,  her  eyes  twinkling  a  little.  At  the 
vicarage  gate  she  was  let  off  without  the  customary  final  gossip. 
Mrs.  Thornburgh  was  so  much  occupied  in  the  fate  hanging 
over  Mary  Jenkinson  that  she,  for  once,  forgot  to  catechise 
Rose  as  to  any  marriageable  young  men  she  might  have  come 
across  in  a  recent  visit  to  a  great  country-house  of  the  neigh- 
borhood ;  an  operation  which  formed  the  invariable  pendant  to 
any  of  Rose's  absences. 

So,  with  a  smiling  nod  to  them  both,  the  girl  turned  home- 
ward. As  she  did  so  she  became  aware  of  a  man's  figura walk- 
ing along  the  space  of  road  between  Greybarns  and  Burwood, 
the  western  light  behind  it. 

Dr.  Baker?  But  even  granting  that  Mrs.  Jenkinson  had 
brought  him  five  miles  on  a  false  alarm,  in  the  provoking  man- 
ner of  matrons,  the  shortest  prof essional  visit  could  not  be  over 
in  this  time. 

She  looked  again,  shading  her  eyes.  She  was  nearing  the 
gate  of  Bur  wood,  and  involuntarily  slackened  step.  The  man 
who  was  approaching,  catching  sight  of  the  slim  girlish  figure 
in  the  broad  hat  and  pink  and  white  cotton  dress,  hurried  up. 
The  color  rushed  to  Rose's  cheek.  In  another  minute  she  and 
Hugh  Flaxman  were  face  to  face. 

She  could  not  hide  her  astonishmeiit. 

''Why  are  you  not  in  Scotland?*^  she  said,  after  she  had 
given  him  her  hand.  ''  Lady  Helen  told  me  last  week  she  ex- 
pected you  in  Ross-shire." 

Directly  the  words  left  her  mouth  she  felt  she  had  given  him 
an  opening.  And  why  had  nature  plagued  her  with  this  trick 
of  blushing?  ^ 

' '  Because  I  am  here !"  he  said,  smiling,  his  keen,  dancing  eyes 
looking  down  upon  her.  He  was  bronzed  as  she  had  never  seen 
him.  And  never  had  he  seemed  to  bring  with  him  such  an  at- 
mosphere of  cool,  pleasant  strength.  ''I  have  slain  so  much 
since  the  first  of  July  that  I  can  slay  no  more.  I  am  not  like 
other  men.  The  Nimrod  in  me  is  easily  gorged,  and  goes  to 
sleep  after  awhile.   So  this  is  Burwood?" 

He  had  caught  her  just  on  the  little  sweep  leading  to  the 
gate,  and  now  his  eyes  swept  quickly  over  the  modest  old  house, 
with  its  trim  garden,  its  overgrown  porch  and  open  casement 


650 


BOBEET  ELSMBBB. 


windows.  She  dared  not  ask  him  again  why  he  was  there.  In 
the  properest  manner  she  invited  him  *'to  come  in  and  see 
mamma." 

''I  hope  Mrs.  Leyburn  is  better  than  she  was  in  town?  I 
shall  be  dehghted  to  see  her.  But  must  you  go  in  so  soon?  I 
left  my  carriage  half  a  mile  below,  and  have  been  revehng  in 
the  sun  and  air.  I  am  loth  to  go  in-doors  yet  awhile.  Are.  you 
busy?  Would  it  trouble  you  to  put  me  in  the  way  to  the  head 
of  the  valley?  Then,  if  you  will  allow  me,  I  will  present  my-^ 
self  later." 

Rose  thought  his  request  as  little  in  the  ordinary  line  of 
things  as  his  appearance.  But  she  turned  and  walked  beside 
him,  pointing  out  the  crags  at  the  head,  the  great  sweep  of 
High  Fell,  and  the  pass  over  to  Ullswater,  with  as  much  sang- 
froid as  she  was  mistress  of. 

He,  on  his  side,  informed  her  that  on  his  way  to  Scotland  he 
had  bethought  himself  that  he  had  never  seen  the  Lakes,  that 
he  had  stopped  at  Whinborough,  was  bent  on  walking  over  the 
High  Fell  pass  to  Ullswater,  and  making  his  way  thence  to 
Ambleside,  Grasmere  and  Keswick. 

"But  you  are  much  too  late  to-day  to  get  to  Ullswater?" 
cried  Rose,  incautiously. 

"  Certainly.  You  see  my  hotel,"  and  he  pomted,  smiling,  to 
a  white  farm-house  standing  just  at  the  bend  of  the  valley, 
where  the  road  turned  toward  Whinborough.  persuaded 
the  good  woman  there  to  give  me  a  bed  for  the  night,  took  my 
carriage  a  little  further,  then,  knowing  I  had  friends  in  these 
parts,  I  came  on  to  explore." 

Rose  angrily  felt  her  flush  getting  deeper  and  deeper. 

"You  are  the  first  tourist,"  she  said,  coolly,  "  who  has  ever 
stayed  in  Whindale." 

"Tourist !  I  repudiate  the  name.  I  am  a  worshiper  at  the 
shrine  of  Wordsworth  and  Nature.  Helen  and  I  long  ago  de- 
fined a  tourist  as  a  being  with  straps.  I  defy  you  to  discover  a 
strap  about  me,  and  I  left  my  Murray  in  the  railwjay  carriage." 

He  looked  at  her,  laughing.  She  laughed,  too.  The  infec- 
tion of  his  strong  sunny  presence  was  irresistible.  In  London 
it  had  been  so  easy  to  stand  on  her  dignity,  to  remember 
whenever  he  was  friendly  that  the  night  before  he  had  been 
distant.  In  these  green  solitudes  it  was  not  easy  to  be  any- 
thing but  natural— the  child  of  the  moment ! 

"  You  are  neither  more  practical  nor  more  economical  than 


nOBKRT  ELSMERE. 


6^1 


when  I  saw  you  last,"  she  said,  demurely.  ''When  did  you 
leave  Norway?" 

They  wandered  on  past  the  vicarage,  talking  fast.  Mr.  Flax- 
man,  who  had  been  joined  for  a  time,  on  his  fishing  tour,  by 
Lord  Waynflete,  was  giving  her  an  amusing  account  of  the 
susceptibility  to  titles  shown  by  the  primitive  democrats  of 
Norway.  As  they  passed  a  gap  in  the  vicarage  hedge,  laugh- 
ing and  chatting,  Eose  became  aware  of  a  window  and  a  gray 
head  hastily  withdrawn.  Mr.  Flaxman  was  puzzled  by  the 
merry  flash,  instantly  suppressed,  that  shot  across  her  face. 

Presently  they  reached  the  hamlet  of  High  Close,  and  the 
house  where  Mary  Backhouse  died,  and  where  her  father  and 
the  poor  bedridden  Jim  still  lived.  They  mounted  the  path 
behind  it,  and  plunged  into  the  hazel  plantation  which  had 
sheltered  Robert  and  Catherine  on  a  memorable  night.  But 
when  they  were  through  it  Rose  turned  to  the  right  aloB;g  a 
scrambling  path  leading  to  the  top  of  the  first  great  shoulder 
of  High  Fell.  It  was  a  steep  climb,  though  a  short  one,  and  it 
seemed  to  Rose  that  when  she  had  once  let  him  help  her  over 
a  rock  her  hand  was  never  her  own  again.  He  kept  it  an  al- 
most constant  prisoner  on  one  pretext  or  another  till  they  were 
at  the  top. 

Then  she  sunk  down  on  a  rock  out  of  breath.  He  stood  be- 
side her,  hf ting  his  brown  wideawake  from  his  brow.  The  air 
below  had  been  warm  and  relaxing.  Here  it  played  upon  them 
both  with  a  delicious  life-giving  freshness.  He  looked  round 
on  the  great  hollow  bosom  of  the  fell,  the  crags  buttressing  it 
on  either  hand,  the  winding  greenness  of  the  valley,  the  white 
sparkle  of  the  river. 

"  It  reminds  me  a  little  of  Norway.  The  same  austere  and 
frugal  beauty— the  same  bare  valley  floors.  But  no  pines,  no 
peaks,  no  fiords !" 

'^Nol"  said  Rose,  scornfully,  "we  are  not  Norway,  and  we 
are  not  Switzerland.  To  prevent  disappointment,  I  may  at 
once  inform  you  that  we  have  no  glaciers,  and  that  there  is 
perhaps  only  one  place  in  the  district  where  a  man  who  was 
not  an  idiot  could  succeed  in  killing  himself. 

He  looked  at  her,  calmly  smiling. 
You  are  angry,"  he  said,    because  1  make  comparisons. 
You  are  wholly  on  a  wrong  scent.   I  never  saw  a  scene  in  the 
world  that  pleased  me  half  as  much  as  this  bare  valley,  that 


652 


EGBERT  ELSMERi!.. 


gray  roof  "—and  he  pointed  to  Burwood  among  its  fcrees^ 
and  this  knoll  of  rocky  ground." 

His  look  traveled  back  to  her,  and  her  eyes  sunk  beneath  it. 
He  threw  himself  down  on  the  short  grass  beside  her. 

It  rained  this  morning,"  she  still  had  the  spirit  to  murmur 
under  her  breath. 

He  took  not  the  smallest  heed. 
Do  you  know,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  dropped,    can  you 
guess  at  all  why  I  am  here  to-day?" 

You  had  never  seen  the  Lakes,"  she  repeated,  in  a  prim 
voice,  her  eyes  still  cast  down,  the  corners  of  her  mouth  twitch- 
ing. *'You  stopped  at  Whinborough,  intending  to  take  the 
pass  over  to  Ullswater,  thence  to  make  your  way  to  Ambleside 
and  Keswick— or  was  it  to  Keswick  and  Ambleside?" 

She  looked  up  innocently.  But  the  flashing  glance  she  met 
abashed  her  again. 

Taquiner  he  said,  *'but  you  shall  not  laugh  me  out  of 
countenance.  If  I  said  all  that  to  you  just  now,  may  I  be 
forgiven.  One  purpose,  one  only,  brought  me  from  Norway, 
forbade  me  to  go  to  Scotland,  drew  me  to  Whinborough, 
guided  me  up  your  valley— the  purpose  of  seeing  your  face  1" 

It  could  not  be  said  at  that  precise  moment  that  he  had  at- 
tained it.  Rather  she  seemed  bent  on  hiding  that  face  quite 
away  from  him.  It  seemed  to  him  an  age  before,  drawn  by 
the  magnetism  of  his  look,  her  hands  dropped,  and  she  faced 
him,  crimson,  her  breath  fluttering  a  little.  Then  she  would 
have  spoken,  but  he  would  not  let  her.  Very  tenderly  and 
quietly  his  hand  possessed  itself  of  hers  as  he  knelt  beside  her. 

I  have  been  in  exile  for  two  months— you  sent  me.  I  saw 
that  I  troubled  you  in  London.  iTou  thought  I  was  pursuing 
you— pressing  you.  ^oui*  manner  said  *Go!'  and  I  went. 
But  do  you  think  that  for  one  day,  or  hour,  or  moment  I  have 
thought  of  anything  eke  in  those  Norway  woods  but  of  you 
and  of  this  blessed  moment  when  I  should  be  at  your  fleet,  as 
I  am  now?" 

She  trembled.  Her  hand  seemed  to  leap  in  his.  His  gaze 
melted,  enwrapped  her.  He  bent  forward.  In  another  mo- 
ment her  silence  would  have  so  answered  for  her  that  his 
covetous  arms  would  have  stolen  about  her  for  good  and  all. 
But  suddenly  a  kind  of  shiver  ran  through  her— a  shiver  whi3i 
was  half  memory,  half  shame.  She  drew  back  violently^ 
^vering  her  eyes  with  her  hand. 


BOBEET  ELSMBEB. 


"Oh  no  no!"  she  cried,  and  her  other  hand  struggled  to  get 
frpe  *^  don't  don't  talk  to  me  so-I  have  a-a  confession." 

wttehed  her,  his  hps  trembhng  a  little,  a  stnile  of  the 

He  watcnea  f^J       J  ^  understanding  dawning  in  his 
'XlhVgoS^^^^^^^^^^^  to  him  what  he  knew  so  well 
Sdy  ?  K  he  conld  only  force  her  to  say  it  on  his  breast. 

But  she  held  him  at  arm's  length. 

"You  remember-you  remember  Mr.  Langham? 

"  Remember  him !"  echoed  Mr.  Flaxman,  fervently. 

-CThoight-reading  night  at  Lady  Charlotte^,  on  the 
way  h^e  he  spoke  to  me.  I  said  I  loved  him.   I  d^d  love 

'^S;/flirh"'faded.  Hecouldhardlytellwhether 
she  was  yieldmg  or  defiant  as  the  words  burst  from  her. 
ITTxpiession,  half  trouble,  half  compunction,  came  into 

^'"fknew,''hesaid,  very  low;  "or  rather,  I^^^^ 
for  an  instant  it  occurred  U>  him  to  unburden  hmiself,  to  ask 
her  p^on  for  that  espionage  of  his.  But  no  no ;  not  till  he 
Md  hWe.  "  I  g«e£^d,  I  mean,  that  there  had  been  some^ 
thinggravebetweenyou.  X  saw  you  were  sad.  I  would  have 
given  the  world  to  comfort  you." 

was  not  easy.  Then  the  smile  broke  once  more.  ^ 

r^d  yS  have  forgotten  him  as  he  f  eserved  I  I  were 
not  sure  of  that  I  could  wish  him  all  the  tortures  of  the  In- 
fern^'  As  it  is,  I  can  not  think  of  him;  I  can  not  let  you 
tS  of  him.  Sweet,  do  you  know  that  ever  since  I  first  saw 
you  the  one  thought  of  my  days,  the  dream  of  my  ngh  s,^he 
purpose  of  mv  whole  Ufe,  has  been  to  wm  you?  There  was 
Sher  in  the  field;  I  knew  it.  I  st,x>d  ^7  ai^  j 
failed  vou-I  knew  he  must  in  some  form  or  other.  Then  I 
wa^haZ  and  you  resented  it.  Little  tyrant,  you  made  your- 
TeK  aS  wSh  tnany  thorns!  But,  tell  me  tell  me  it  is  all 
otJr~?o?r  p^,  my  waiting.   Make  yom^eltsweet  to  me!  un- 

'tn'in?tlSsh?w'avered.  His  bliss  was  almost  in  his  gra^- 
Tht  S  'Sung  up,  and  Flazman  found  himself  standmg  by 
her,  rebuffed  and  surprised. 


654 


KOBEET  BLSMERE. 


"  No,  no!"  She  cried,  holding  uut  her  hands  to  him  though 
all  the  time.  "  Oh,  it  is  too  soon!  I  suould  despise  myself  I 
do  despise  myself.  It  tortures  me  that  I  ci  .n  change  and  for- 
get so  easily;  it  ought  to  torture  you.  Ob,  don't  ask  me  yet 
to— to — " 

"  To  be  my  wife,"  he  said,  calmly,  his  cheek  a  little  flushed 
his  eye  meeting  hei-s  with  a  passion  in  it  that  strove  so  hard 
for  self-control  it  was  almost  sternness. 

Not  yet!"  she  pleaded,  and  then,  after  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation, she  broke  into  the  most  appealing  smiles,  though  the 
tears  were  in  her  eyes,  hurrying  out  the  broken,  beseeching 
words.  "I  want  a  friend  so  much-a  real  friend.  Since 
Catherine  left  I  have  had  no  one.  I  have  been  running  riot 
Take  me  m  hand.  Write  to  me,  scold  me,  advise  me:  I  will 
be  your  pupU,  I  will  tell  you  everything.  You  seem  to  me  so 
fearfully  wise,  so  much  older.  Oh,  don't  be  vexed,  And-and 
— in  six  months—" 

She  turned  away,  rosy  as  her  name.  He  held  her  still,  so 
ngidly,  that  her  hands  were  almost  hurt.  The  shadow  of  the 
hat  fell  over  her  eyes;  the  dehcate  outlines  of  the  neck  and 
shoulders  m  the  pretty  pale  dress  were  defined  against  the  green 
hiU  background.  He  studied  her  dehberately,  a  hundred  dif- 
ferent expressions  sweeping  across  his  face,  A  debate  of  the 
most  feverish  interest  was  going  on  within  him.  Her  serious- 
ness at  the  moment,  the  chances  of  the  future,  her  charac- 
ter, his  own-all  these  knotty  points  entered  into  it,  had  to  be 
weighed  and  decided  with  lightning  rapidity.  But  Huge 
Maxman  was  born  under  a  lucky  star,  and  the  natal  charm 
held  good. 

At  last  he  gave  a  lon^  breath;  he  stooped  and  kissed  her 
hands. 

"  So  be  it.  For  six  months  I  will  be  your  guardian,  your 
friend,  your  teasing,  implacable  censor.  At  the  end  of  that 
time  I  will  be— well,  never  mind  what.  I  give  you  fair  warn- 
ing." 

He  released  her.  Rose  clasped  her  hands  before  her  and 
stood  drooping.  Now  that  she  had  gained  her  point,  all  her 
bright  mocking  independence  seemed  to  have  vanished.  She 
might  have  been  in  reality  the  tremulous,  timid  child  she 
seemed.  His  spirits  rose;  he  began  to  like  the  role  she  had 
assigned  to  Mm.   The  touch  o|  unexpectedness,  in  ail  she  said 


ROBERT  BLSMERE. 


655 


and  did,  acted  with  exhilarating  force  on  his  fastidious,  ro- 
mantic sense. 

Now,  then,"  he  said,  picking  up  her  gloves  from  the  grass, 
you  have  given  me  my  rights;  I  will  begin  to  exercise  them 
at  once.  I  must  take  you  home,  the  clouds  are  coming  up 
again,  and  on  the  way  will  you  kindly  give  me  a  full,  true,  and 
minute  account  of  these  two  months  during  which  you  have 
been  so  dangerously  left  to  your  own  devices  ?" 

She  hesitated,  and  began  to  speak  with  difficulty,  her  eyes 
on  the  ground.  But  by  the  time  they  were  in  the  main  Shan- 
moor  path  again,  and  she  was  not  so  weakly  dependent  on  his 
physical  aid,  her  spirits  too  retured.  Pacing  along  with  her 
hands  behind  her,  she  began  by  degrees  to  throw  into  her  ac- 
counts of  her  various  visits  and  performances  plenty  of  her 
natural  malice. 

And  after  a  bit,  as  that  strange  storm  of  feeling  which  had 
assailed  her  on  the  mountain-top  abated  something  of  its  be- 
v/ildering  force,  certain  old  grievances  began  to  raise  very 
lively  heads  in  her.  TTie  smart  of  Lady  Fauntleroy's  ball  was 
still  there;  she  had  not  yet  forgiven  him  all  those  relations; 
and  the  teasing  image  of  Lady  Florence  woke  up  in  her. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  he  said  at  last,  dryly,  as  he  opened  a  gate 
for  her  not  far  from  Burwood,  that  you  have  been  making 
yourself  agreeable  to  a  vast  number  of  people.  In  my  new 
capacity  of  censor  I  should  like  to  warn  you  that  there  is 
nothing  so  bad  for  the  character  as  universal  popularity." 

Jhave  not  got  a  thousand  and  one  important  cousins !"  she 
exclaimed,  her  lip  curling.  *'If  I  want  to  please,  I  must  take 
pains,  else  '  nobody  minds  me.'  " 

He  looked  at  her  attentively,  his  handsome  face  aglow  with 
animation. 

What  can  you  mean  by  that  ?"  he  said,  slowly. 

But  she  was  quite  silent,  her  head  v/ell  in  air. 

V* Cousins?"  he  repeated.  ''Cousins?  And  clearly  meant 
as  a  taunt  at  me !  Now  when  did  you  see  my  cousins  ?  I  grant 
that  I  possess  a  monstrous  and  indefensible  number.  I  have  it. 
You  think  that  at  Lady  Fauntleroy's  ball  I  devoted  myself  too 
much  to  my  family,  and  too  little  to  — " 

"  Not  at  all!"  cried  Rose,  hastily,  adding,  with  charming  in- 
coherence, while  she  twisted  a  sprig  of  honeysuckle  in  lier  rest 
less  fingers,    Some  cousins  of  course  are  pretty." 

Be  paused     instant ;  then  a  light  Woke  over  his  face,  m& 


656 


KOBERT  ELSMEKE. 


his  burst  of  quiet  laughter  was  infinitely  pieasaiit  to  hear. 
Rose  got  redder  and  redder.  She  reahzed  diuily  that  she  was 
hardly  maintain!  ig  the  spirit  of  their  contract,  and  that  he  was 
studying  her  with  eyes  inconveniently  bright  and  penetrating. 

Shall  I  quote  to  you,"  he  said,  ' '  a  sentence  of  Sterne's  ?  If 
it  violate  our  contract  I  must  plead  extenuating  circumstances. 
Sterne  is  admonishing  a  young  friend  as  to  his  manners  in 
society :  '  You  are  in  love,'  he  says.  *  Tant  mieux.  But  do  not 
imagine  that  the  fact  bestows  on  you  a  license  to  behave  like  a 
bear  toward  all  the  rest  of  the  world.  Affection  may  surely 
conduct  thee  through  an  avenue  of  women  to  her  who  possesses 
thy  heart  without  tearing  the  flounces  of  any  of  their  petticoats ' 
—not  even  those  of  little  cousins  of  seventeen!  I  say  this,  you 
will  ohserve,  in  the  capacity  you  have  assigned  me.  In  another 
capacity  I  venture  to  think  I  could  justify  myself  still  better." 

*'My  guardian  and  director,"  cried  Rose,  **must  not  begin 
his  functions  by  misleading  and  sophistical  quotations  from  the 
classics !" 

He  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.  They  were  at  the  gate  of 
Burwood,  under  a  thick  screen  of  wild  cherry-trees.  The  gate 
was  half  open,  and  his  hand  was  on  it. 

And  my  pupil,"  he  said,  bending  to  her,  "must  not  begin 
by  challenging  the  prisoner  whose  hands  she  has  bound,  or  he 
will  not  answer  for  the  consequences !" 

His  words  were  threatening,  but  his  voice,  his  fine,  expres- 
sive face,  were  infinitely  sweet.  By  a  kind  of  fascination  she 
never  afterward  understood.  Rose  for  answer  startled  him  and 
herself.  She  bent  her  head;  she  laid  her  lips  on  the  hand 
which  held  the  gate,  and  then  she  was  through  it  in  an  instant. 
He  followed  her  in  vain.  He  never  overtook  her  tiU  at  the 
drawing-room  door  she  paused  with  amazing  dignity. 

''Mamma,"  she  said,  throwing  it  open,  "here  is  Mr.  Flax- 
man.  He  is  come  from  Norway,  and  is  on  his  way  to  UUs- 
water.   I  will  go  and  speak  to  Margaret  about  tea. 

CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

After  the  little  incident  recorded  at  the  end  of  the  preceding 
chapter,  Hugh  Flaxman  maybe  forgiven  if,  as  he  walked  home 
along  the  valley  that  night  toward  the  farm-house  where  be 
had  established  himself,  he  entertained  a  very  comfortable 
skepticism  as  to  the  permanence  of  that  curious  contract  into 
which  Rose  had  just  forced  him.   However,  hQ  was  quite  mis* 


EOBERT  ELSMEBE. 


657 


t^ken.  Rose's  maiden  dignity  avenged  itself  abundantly  on 
Hugh  Flaxman  for  the  injuries  it  had  received  at  the  hands  of 
Langham.  The  restraints,  the  anomalies,  the  hair-sphttings 
of  the  situation  delighted  her  ingenuous  youth.  ^^I  am  free- 
he  is  free.  We  will  be  friends  for  six  months.  Possibly  we 
may  not  suit  one  another  at  all.   If  we  do— then— ' 

In  the  thrill  of  that  then  lay,  of  course,  the  whole  attraction 
of  the  position. 

So  that  next  morning  Hugh  Flaxman  saw  the  comedy  was 
to  be  scrupulously  kept  up.  It  required  a  tolerably  strong 
masculine  certainty  at  the  bottom  of  him  to  enable  him  to  re- 
sign himself  once  more  to  his  part.  But  he  achieved  it,  and 
being  himself  a  modern  of  the  moderns,  a  lover  of  half -shades 

^nd  refinements  of  all  sorts,  he  began  very  soon  to  enjoy  it, 
and  to  play  it  with  an  increasing  cleverness  and  perfection. 

How  Rose  got  through  Agnes's  cross-questioning  on  the  mat- 
ter history  sayeth  not.  Of  one  thing,  however,  a  conscientious 
historian  may  be  sure,  namely,  that  Agnes  succeeded  in  know- 
ing as  much  as  she  wanted  to  know.  Mrs.  Ley  burn  was  a  lit- 
tle puzzled  by  the  erratic  hues  of  Mr.  Flaxman's  journeys.  It 
was,  as  she  said,  curious  that  a  man  should  start  on  a  tour 
through  the  Lakes  from  Long  Whindale. 

But  she  took  everything  naively  as  it  came,  and  as  she  was  told. 
Nothing  with  her  ever  passed  through  any  changing  crucible 
of  thought.  It  required  no  planning  to  elude  her.  Her  mind 
was  like  a  stretch  of  wet  sand,  on  which  all  impressions  are 
equally  easy  to  make  and  equally  fugitive.  He  liked  them  all, 
she  supposed,  in  spite  of  the  comparative  scantiness  of  his 
later  visits  to  Lerwick  Gardens,  or  he  would  not  have  come  out 
of  his  way  to  see  them.  But  as  nobody  suggested  anything 
else  to  her,  her  mind  worked  no  further,  and  she  was  as  easily 

^beguiled  after  his  appearance  as  before  it  by  the  intricacies  of 
some  new  knitting. 
Things  of  course  might  have  been  different  if  Mrs.  Thorn- 

'  burgh  had  interfered  again;  but,  as  we  know,  poor  Catherine's 
sorrows  had  raised  a  whole  odd  host  of  misgivings  in  the  mind 
of  the  vicar's  wife.  She  prowled  nervously  round  Mrs.  Ley- 
burn,  filled  with  contempt  for  her  placidity;  but  she  did  not 
attack  her.  She  spent  herself,  indeed,  on  Rose  and  Agnes,  but 
long  practice  had  made  them  adepts  in  tht.  art  of  baffiing  her; 
and  'when  Mr.  Flaxman  went  to  tea  at  the  vicarage  in  their 
company,  in  spite  of  an  absorbing  desire  to  get  at  the  truth, 


658 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


which  caused  her  to  forget  a  new  cap,  and  let  fall  a  plate  ot 
tea  cakes,  she  was  obliged  to  confess  crossly  to  the  vicar  after- 
ward that  no  one  could  tell  what  a  man  like  that  was  after. 
She  supposed  his  manners  were  very  aristocratic,  but  for  her 
part  she  liked  plain  people." 

On  the  last  morning  of  Mr.  Flaxman's  stay  in  the  valley  he 
entered  the  Burwood  drive  about  eleven  o'clock,  and  Eose 
€ame  down  the  steps  to  meet  him.  For  a  moment  he  flattered 
himself  that  her  distm'bed  looks  were  due  to  the  nearness  of 
their  farewells.  ^ 

''There  is  something  wrong,"  he  said  softly,  detaining  her 
hand  a  moment— so  much,  at  least,  was  in  his  right. 

Eobert  is  ill.   There  has  been  an  accident  at  Petites  Dalles. 
He  has  been  in  bed  for  a  week.   They  hope  to  get  home  in  a  few  . 
days.    Catherine  writes  bravely,  but  she  is  evidently  very  low. " 

Hugh  Flaxman's  face  fell.  Certain  letters  he  had  received 
from  Elsmere  in  July  had  lain  heavy  on  his  mind  ever  since, 
so  pitiful  was  the  half-conscious  revelation  in  them  of  an  in- 
cessant physical  struggle.  An  accident!  Elsmere  was  in  no 
state  for  accidents.    What  miserable  ill-luck ! 

Eose  read  him  Catherine's  account.  It  appeared  that  on  a 
certain  stormy  day  a  swimmer  had  been  observed  m  difficul- 
ties among  the  rocks  skirting  the  northern  side  of  the  Petites 
Dalles  Bay.  The  old  haigneur  of  the  place,  owner  of  the  still 
primitive  etablissement  des  tains,  without  stopping  to  strip,  or 
even  to  take  off  his  heavy  boots,  went  out  to  the  man  in  danger 
with  a  plank.  The  man  took  the  plank  and  was  safe.  Then  to 
the  people  watching  it  became  evident  that  the  baigneur  him 
self  was  in  peril.  He  became  unaccountably  feeble  in  the 
water,  and  the  cry  rose  that  he  was  sinking.  Eobert,  who 
happened  to  be  bathing  near,  ran  off  to  the  spot,  jumped  in, 
and  swam  out.  By  this  time  the  old  man  had  drifted  some 
way.  Eobert  succeeded,  however,  in  bringing  him  in,  and  then, 
amid  an  excited  crowd,  headed  by  the  haigneur^ s  wailing 
family,  they  carried  the  unconscious  form  on  to  the  higher 
beach.  Elsmere  was  certain  life  was  not  extinct,  and  sent  off 
for  a  doctor.  Meanwhile  no  one  seemed  to  have  any  common 
sense,  or  any  knowledge  of  how  to  proceed,  but  himself.  For 
two  hours  he  stayed  on  the  besch  in  his  dripping  bathing- 
clothes,  a  cold  wind  blowing,  trying  every  device  known  to 
him:  rubbing,  hot  bottles,  artificial  respiration.  In  vain.  The 
man  was  too  old  and  too  bloodless.   Directly  after  the  doctor 


BOBBRT  ELSMERE. 


6S0 


arrived  he  breathed  his  last,  amid  the  wild  and  passionate  grief 
of  wife  and  children. 

Robert,  with  a  cloak  flung  about  him,  still  stayed  to  talk  to 
the  doctor,  to  carry  one  of  the  baigneur's  sobbing  grandchildren 
to  its  mother  in  the  viUage.  Then,  at  last,  Catherine  got  hold 
of  him,  and  he  submitted  to  be  '  -aken  home,  shivering,  and 
deeply  depressed  by  the  failure  of  .  lis  efforts.  A  violent  gastric 
and  lung  chill  declared  itself  almost  immediately,  and  for  throe 
days  he  had  been  anxiously  ill.  Catherine,  miserable,  dis- 
trusting the  local  doctor,  and  not  knowing  how  to  get  hold  of 
a  better  one,  had  never  left  him  night  or  day.  I  had  not  the 
heart  to  write  even  to  you,"  she  wrote  to  her  mother.  ^'I 
could  think  of  nothing  but  trying  one  thing  after  another. 
Now  he  has  been  in  bed  eight  days,  and  is  much  better.  He 
talks  of  getting  up  to-morrow,  and  declares  he  must  go  home 
next  week.  I  have  tried  to  persuade  him  to  &tay  here  another 
fortnight,  but  the  thought  of  his  work  distresses  him  so  much 
that  I  hardly  dare  urge  it.  I  can  not  say  how  I  dread  the 
journey.   He  is  not  fit  for  it  in  any  way." 

Rose  folded  up  the  letter,  her  face  softened  to  a  most 
womanly  gravity.  Hugh  Flaxman  paused  a  moment  outside 
the  door,  his  hands  on  his  sides,  considering. 

shall  not  go  on  to  Scotland,"  he  said;  ''Mrs.  Elsmere 
must  not  be  left.    I  will  go  off  there  at  once." 

In  Rose's  soberly  sweet  looks  as  he  left  her,  Hugh  Flaxman 
saw  for  an  instant,  with  the  stirring  of  a  joy  as  profound  as  it 
was  delicate,  not  the  fanciful  enchantx-ess  of  the  day  before, 
but  his  wife  that  was  to  be.  And  yet  she  held  him  to  his  bar- 
gain. All  that  his  lips  touched  as  he  said  good-bye  was  the  lit- 
tle bunch  of  yellow  brier  roses  she  gave  him  from  her  belt. 

Thirty  hours  later  he  was  descending  the  long  hill  from  Sas- 
setot  to  Petites  DaUes.  It  was  the  1st  of  September.  A  chiUy 
west  wind  blew  up  the  dust  before  him  and  stirred  the  parched 
leafage  of  the  valley.  He  knocked  at  the  door,  of  which  the 
wood-work  was  all  peeled  and  bhstered  by  the  sun.  Catherine 
herself  opened  it. 

This  is  kind— this  is  like  yourself!"  she  said,  after  a  first 
stare  of  amazement,  when  he  had  explained  himself.  ''He  is 
in  there,  much  better." 

Robert  looked  up,  stupefied,  as  Hugh  Flaxman  entered.  But 
he  sprung  up  with  his  old  brightness. 

Well,  this  is  friendship !   What  on  earth  brings  you  here, 


660 


BOBERT  ELSMERE. 


old  fellow?  Why  aren't  you  in  the  stubbles  celebrating 
Partridge?" 

Hugh  Flaxman  said  what  he  had  to  say  very  shortly,  but  se- 
as to  make  Eobert's  eyes  gleam,  and  to  bring  his  thin  hand  with 
a  sort  of  caressing  touch  upon  Flaxman 's  shoulder. 

I  sha'n't  try  to  thank  you— Catherine  can  if  she  Ukes.  How 
relieved  she  will  be  about  that  bothering  journey  of  ours !  How- 
ever, I  am  really  ever  so  much  better.  It  was  very  sharp  while 
it  lasted ;  and  the  doctor  no  great  shakes.  Bnt  there  never  was 
such  a  woman  as  my  wife;  she  pulled  me  through !  And  now 
then,  sir,  just  kindly  confess  yourself  a  little  more  plainly. 
What  brought  you  and  my  sisters-in-law  together?  You  need 
not  try  and  persuade  me  that  Long  Whindale  is  the  natural 
gate  of  the  Lakes,  or  the  route  intended  by  Heaven  from  Lon- 
don to  Scotland,  though  I  have  no  doubt  you  tried  that  little 
fiction  on  them." 

Hugh  Flaxman  laughed,  and  sat  down  very  deliberately. 

''I  am  glad  to  see  that  illness  has  not  robbed  you  of  that 
perspicacity  for  which  you  are  so  remarkable,  Elsmere.  Well, 
the  day  before  yesterday  I  asked  your  sister  Rose  to  marry  me. 
She-"  ^ 
Go  on,  man,"  cried  Robert,  exasperated  by  his  pause. 
I  don't  know  how  to  put  it,"  said  Flaxman,  calmly.  For 
six  months  we  are  to  be  rather  more  than  friends,  and  a  good 
deal  less  than  fiances,  I  am  to  be  allowed  to  write  to  her.  You 
may  imagine  how  seductive  it  is  to  one  of  the  worst  and  laziest 
letter- writers  in  the  three  kingdoms  that  his  fortunes  in  love 
should  be  made  to  depend  on  his  correspondence.  I  may  scold 
her  if  she  gives  me  occasion.  And  in  six  months,  as  one  says 
to  a  publisher,  '  the  a^eement  will  be  open  to  revision.' " 

Robert  stared. 
And  you  are  not  engaged?" 

'*Not  as  I  understand  it,"  replied  Flaxman.  '^Decidedly 
not!"  he  added,  with  energy,  remembering  that  very  platonic 
farewell. 

Robert  sat  with  his  hands  on  his  knees,  ruminating. 

' '  A  fantastic  thing,  the  modern  young  woman !  Still  I  think 
I  can  understand.  There  may  have  been  more  than  mere 
caprice  in  it." 

His  eye  met  his  friend's  significantly. 

suppose  so,"  said  Flaxman,  quietly.  Not  even  for  RoL 
ert's  benefit  was  he  going  to  reveal  any  details  of  that  scene 


EOBEBT  ELSMEEB. 


on  Hiffh  Fell  "  Never  mmd,  old  fellow,  I  am  content.  And, 
tudeelfautede  mieux,  I  should  be  content  with  anything  that 
BroSt  nie  nearer  to  her,  were  it  but  by  the  thousandth  of  an 

inch."  „  ^.     ^  . 

Eobert  grasped  his  hand  affectionately. 

"Catherine,"  he  called  through  the  door,  "never  mmd  the 
supper;  let  it  burn.   Flaxman  brings  news."  ^ 

Catherine  listened  to  the  story  with  amazement.  Certainly 
her  ways  would  never  laave  been  as  her  sister's. 

"Are  we  supposed  to  know?"  she  asked  very  naturally.  ^ 

"  She  never  forbade  me  to  tell,"  said  Flaxman,  smihng.  '  i 
think,  however,  if  I  were  you,  I  should  say  nothing  about  it-- 
vet  I  told  her  it  was  part  of  our  bargain  that  she  should  ex- 
plain my  letters  to  Mrs.  Leyburn.  I  gave  her  free  leave  to  in- 
vent any  fairy  tale  she  pleased,  but  it  was  to  be  her  invention, 

"°Ndther  Eobert  nor  Catherine  were  very  well  pleased.  But 
there  was  something  reassuring  as  well  as  comic  in  the  stoicism 
with  which  Flaxman  took  his  position.  And  clearly  the  matter 
must  be  left  to  manage  itself .  ,  ,  .  ,  a 

Next  morning  the  weather  had  improved.  Eobert,  his  hand 
on  Flaxman's  arm,  got  down  to  the  beach.  Flaxman  watched 
him  critically,  did  not  like  some  of  his  symptoms,  but  though ; 
on  the  whole  he  must  be  recovering  at  the  normal  rate,  consid- 
ering how  severe  the  attack  had  been.  ^ 

"What  do  you  think  of  him?"  Catherine  asked  him  next 
day  with  all  her  soul  in  her  eyes.  They  had  left  Eobert  estab- 
lished in  a  sunny  nook,  and  were  strolling  on  along  the  sands. 

"I  think  you  must  get  him  home,  call  in  a  first-rate  doctor, 
and  keep  him  quiet,"  said  Flaxman.    "He  will  be  all  right. 

^""^^Hovf  can  we  keep  Wm  quiet?"  said  Catherine,  with  a  mo^ 
mentary  despair  in  her  fine  pale  face.  "  All  day  long  and  all 
nigl  i  long  he  is  thinking  of  his  work.  It  is  like  something 
fiery  burning  the  heart  out  of  him."  .     „   ,      ,  . 

Flaxman  felt  the  truth  of  the  remark  during  the  four  days  of 
cahn  autumn  weather  he  spent  with  them  before  the  return 
ioiu-ney.  Eobert  would  talk  to  him  for  hours,  now  on  the 
sands,  with  the  gray  infinity  of  sea  before  them,  now  pacing 
the  bounds  of  their  little  room  till  fatigue  made  him  drop  heav- 
ilv  into  his  long  chair;  and  the  burden  of  it  all  was  the  reng- 
iou«  future  of  the  working  class.   He  described  the  scene  ic 


682 


EOBEET  ELSMEBE. 


the  club,  and  brought  out  the  dreams  swarming  in  his  mind 
presenting  them  for  Flaxman's  criticism,  and  dealing  witb 
them  himself  with  that  startling  mixture  of  acute  common 
sense  and  eloquent  passion  which  had  always  made  him  so  ef 
fective  as  an  initiator.  Flaxman  listened  dubiously  at  first  as 
he  generaUy  listened  to  Elsmere,  and  then  was  carried  awky 
not  by  the  beliefs,  but  by  the  man.  He  found  his  pleasure  iu 
dal  ying  with  the  magni&cent possibility  of  the  Church;  doubt 
^v-ith  him  applied  to  all  propositions,  whether  positive  or  nega- 
tive; and  he  had  the  dislike  of  the  aristocrat  and  the  cosmo- 
politan for  the  provincialisms  of  reUgious  dissent.  Political 
dissent  or  social  reform  was  another  matter.  Since  the  Rev- 
olution, every  generous  child  of  the  century  has  been  open  to 
the  fascmation  of  pohtical  or  social  Utopias.  But  rehgion' 
What-what  is  truth  ?  Why  not  let  the  old  things  alone  ? 

However,  it  was  through  the  social  passion,  once  so  real  in 
him,  and  still  living,  in  spite  of  disillusion  and  self-mockery 
that  Robert  caught  him,  had  in  fact  been  slowly  gaining  pos- 
session of  him  all  these  months. 

"Well,"  said  Flaxman  one  day,  "suppose  I  grant  you  that 
Christianity  of  the  old  sort  shows  strong  signs  of  exhaustion 
even  m  England,  and  in  spite  of  the  Church  expansion  we  hear 
so  much  about ;  and  suppose  I  beheve  with  you  that  things  will 
go  badly  without  religion-what  then  ?  Who  can  have  a  re- 
ligion for  the  asking  ?" 

^  "But  who  can  have  it  without  ?   Seek,  that  you  may  find 
Experiment;  try  new  combinations.   If  a  thing  is  going  that 
humanity  can't  do  without,  and  you  and  I  believe  it,  what  duty 
is  more  urgent  for  us  than  the  effort  to  replace  it  ?" 
.  Flaxman  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
' '  What  will  you  gain  ?  A  new  sect  ?" 
Possibly.   But  what  we  stand  to  gain  is  a  new  social  bond  " 
was  the  flashing  answer-"  a  new  compeUing  force  in  man  and 
m  society.  Can  you  deny  that  the  world  wants  it  ?  What  are 
you  economists  and  sociologists  of  the  new  type  always  pining 
for  ?  Why,  for  that  duninution  of  the  self  in.man  which  is  to 
enable  the  individual  to  see  the  world's  end  clearly,  and  to  care 
not  only  for  his  own  but  for  his  neighbor's  interest,  which  is  to 
make  the  rich  devote  themselves  to  the  poor,  and  the  poor  bear 
with  the  rich.   If  man  only  v;ould,  he  could,  you  say  solve  aU 
the  problems  which  oppress  him.   It  is  man's  will  which  is 
wernally  defective,  eternally  inadequate.   WeU,  the  great  r& 


BOBSRT  ELSMERB. 


863 


ligions  of  the  world  are  the  stimulants  by  which  the  power  at 
the  root  of  things  has  worked  upon  this  sluggish  instrument  of 
human  destiny.  Without  religion  you  cannot  make  the  will 
equal  to  its  tasks.  Our  present  religion  fails  us;  we  must,  w© 
will  have  another !" 

He  rose  and  began  to  pace  along  the  sands,  now  gently  glow- 
ing in  the  warm  September  evening,  Flaxman  beside  him. 

A  new  religion  I  Of  all  words,  the  most  tremendous !  Flax- 
man  pitifully  weighed  against  it  the  fraction  of  force  fretting 
and  surging  in  the  thin  elastic  frame  beside  him.  He  knew 
well,  however—few  better — that  the  outburst  was  not  a  mere 
dream  and  emptiness.  There  was  experience  behind  it— a 
burning,  driving  experience  of  actual  fact. 

Presently  Eobert  said,  with  a  change  of  tone:  I  must  have 
that  whole  block  of  warehouses,  Flaxman." 

Must  you?"  said  Flaxman,  relieved  by  the  drop  from  spec- 
ulation to  the  practical.    * '  Why?" 

Look  here!"  And  sitting  down  again  on  a  sand-hill  over- 
grown with  wild  grasses  and  mats  of  sea-thistle  the  poor  pale 
reformer  began  to  draw  out  the  details  of  his  scheme  on  its 
material  side.  Three  floors  of  rooms  brightly  furnished,  well 
lighted  and  warmed;  a  large  hall  for  the  Sunday  lectures,  con- 
certs, entertainments,  and  story-telling;  rooms  for  the  boys' 
club:  two  rooms  for  women  and  girls,  reached  by  a  separate 
entrance;  a  library  and  reading-room  open  to  both  sexes,  well 
stored  with  books,  and  made  beautiful  by  pictures;  three  or 
four  smaller  rooms  to  serve  as  committee-rooms  and  for  the 
purposes  of  the  NaturaHst  Club  which  had  been  started  in  May 
on  the  Murewell  plan;  and,  if  possible,  a  gymnasium. 

''Money  r  he  said,  drawing  up  with  a  laugh  in  mid-career. 
"  There's  the  rub,  of  course.    But  I  shall  ihanage  it." 

To  judge  from  the  past,  Flaxman  thought  it  extremely  likely 
that  he  would.  He  studied  the  cabahstic  lines  Elsmere's  stick 
had  made  in  the  sand  for  a  minute  or  two ;  then  he  said,  dryly : 
"  I  will  take  the  first  expense ;  and  draw  on  me  afterward  up 
to  five  hundred  a  year,  for  the  first  four  years." 

Robert  turned  upon  him  and  grasped  his  hand. 

'^I  do  not  thank  you,"  he  said,  quietly,  after  a  moment's 
pause;  ''the  work  itself  will  do  that." 

Again  they  strolled  on,  talking,  plunging  into  details,  tiH 
Flaxman's  pulse  beat  as  fast  as  Eobert's ;  so  full  of  infectious 
hope  and  energy  was  the  whole  being  of  the  man  before  him. 


664 


KOBBRT  ELSMERK. 


''  I  can  take  in  the  women  and  girls  now,"  Robert  said  onc^ 
"  Catherine  has  promised  to  superintend  it  all." 

Then  suddenly  something  struck  the  mobile  mind,  and  h^ 
stood  an  instant  looking  at  his  companion.  It  was  the  first  timi 
he  had  mentioned  Catherine's  name  in  connection  with  th^ 

North  R  work.   Flaxman  could  not  mistake  the  emotion, 

the  unspoken  thanks  in  those  eyes.  He  turned  away,  nervously 
knocking  off  the  ashes  of  his  cigar.  But  the  two  men  under- 
stood  each  other^ 

CHAPTER  XLIX. 

Two  days  later  they  were  in  London  again.  Robert  was  a 
great  deal  better,  and  beginning  to  kick  against  invalid  re- 
straints. All  men  have  their  pet  irrationalities.  Elsmere's 
irrationaUty  was  an  aversion  to  doctors,  from  the  point  of  view 
of  his  own  ailments.  He  had  an  unbounded  admiration  for 
them  as  a  class,  and  would  have  nothing  to  say  to  them  as  in- 
dividuals that  he  could  possibly  help.  Flaxman  was  sarcastic ; 
Catherine  looked  imploring  in  vain.  He  vowed  that  he  was 
treating  himself  with  a  skill  any  professional  might  envy,  and 
went  his  way,  and  for  a  time  the  stimulus  of  London  and  of 
his  work  seemed  to  act  favorably  upon  him.  After  his  first 
welcome  at  the  club  he  came  home  with  bright  eye  and  vigor- 
ous step,  declaring  that  he  was  another  man. 

Flaxman  established  himself  in  St.  James's  Place.  Town 
was  deserted ;  the  partridges  at  Greenlaws  clamored  to  be  shot . 
the  head-keeper  wrote  letters  which  would  have  melted  the  heart 
of  a  stone.  Flaxman  replied,  recklessly,  that  any  decent  fellow 
in  the  neighborhood  was  welcome  to  shoot  his  birds— a  reply 
which  almost  brought  upon  him  the  resignation  of  the  outraged 
keeper  by  return  of  ^ost.  Lady  Charlotte  wrote  and  remon- 
strated  with  him  for  neglecting  a  land-owner's  duties,  inquiring 
at  the  same  time^^hat  he  meant  to  do  with  regard  to  ''that 
young  lady."  To  which  Flaxman  repUed,  calmly,  that  he  had 
just  come  back  from  the  Lakes,  where  he  had  done,  not  indeed 
all  that  he  meant  to  do,  but  stm  something.  Miss  Leyburn  and 
he  were  not  engaged,  but  he  was  on  probation  for  six  months, 
and  found  London  the  best  place  for  getting  through  it. 

*'So  far,"  he  said,  am  getting  on  well,  and  developing 
an  amount  of  energy  especially  in  the  matter  of  correspondence, 
which  alone  ought  to  commend  the  arrangement  to  the  relations 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


665 


of  an  idle  man.  But  we  must  be  left '  to  dream  our  dream  unto 
ourselves  alone.'  One  word  from  anybody  belonging  to  me  to 
anybody  belonging  to  her  on  the  subject,  and—  But  threats 
are  puerile.  For  the  present^  dear  aunt,  I  am  your  devoted 
nephew,  ,  Hugh  Flaxman." 

On  prohationy 

Flaxman  chuckled  as  he  sent  oflE  the  letter. 

He  stayed  because  he  was  too  restless  to  be  anywhere  else,  and 
because  he  loved  the  Elsmeres  for  Rose's  sake  and  his  own. 
He  thought,  moreover,  that  a  cool-headed  friend  with  an  eye 
for  something  else  in  the  world  than  religious  reform  might  be 
useful  just  then  to  Elsmere,  and  he  was  determined  at  the 
same  time  to  see  what  the  reformer  meant  to  be  at. 

In  the  first  place,  Robert's  attention  was  directed  to  getting 
possession  of  the  whole  block  of  buildings,  in  which  the  existing 
school  and  lecture-rooms  took  up  only  the  lowest  floor.  This 
was  a  matter  of  some  difficulty,  for  the  floors  above  were  em- 
ployed in  warehousing  goods  belonging  to  various  minor  import 
trades,  and  were  held  on  tenures  of  different  lengths.  How- 
ever, by  dint  of  some  money  and  much  skill,  the  requisite  clear- 
ances were  effected  during  September  and  part  of  October.  By 
the  end  of  that  month,  all  but  the  top  floor,  the  tenant  of  which 
refused  to  be  dislodged,  fell  into  Elsmere's  hands. 

Meanwhile,  at  a  meeting  held  every  Sunday  after  lecture—a 
meeting  composed  mainly  of  artisans  of  the  district,  but  includ- 
ing also  Robert's  helpers  from  the  west,  and  a  small  sprinkhng 
of  persons  interested  in  the  man  and  his  work  from  all  parts— 
the  details  of  '*The  New  Brotherhood  of  Christ"  were^being 
hammered  out.  Catherine  was  generally  present,  sitting  a  little 
apart,  with  a  look  which  Flaxman,  who  now  knew  her  well,  was 
always  trying  to  decipher  afresh- -a  sort  of  sweet  aloofness,  as 
though  the  spirit  behind  it  saw,  down  the  vistas  of  the  future, 
ends  and  solutions  which  gave  it  courage  to  endure  the  present. 
Murray  Edwardes  too  was  ial ways  there.  It  often  struck  Flax- 
man afterward  that  in  Robert's  attitude  toward  Edwardes  at 
this  time,  in  his  constant  desire  to  bring  him  forward,  to  asso- 
ciate him  with  himself  as  much  is  possible  in  the  government 
and  formation  of  the  infant  society,  there  was  a  half -conscious 
pre^ience  of  a  truth  that  as  yet  none  knew,  not  even  the  ten- 
der wife,  the  watchful  friend. 

'  The  meetings  were  of  extraordinary  interest.   The  men,  the 


666 


ROBERT  ELSMERB. 


great  majority  of  whom  had  been  disciplined  and  molded  for 
months  by  contact  with  Elsemere's  teaching  and  Elsmere's 
thought,  showed  a  responsiveness,  a  receptivity,  even  a  power 
of  initiation  which  often  struck  Flaxman  with  wonder.  Were 
these  the  men  he  had  seen  in  the  club  hall  on  the  night  of  Rob- 
ert's address— sour,  stohd,  brutalized,  hostile  to  all  things  in 
heaven  and  earth  ? 

And  we  go  on  prating  that  the  age  of  saints  is  over,  ther61e 
of  the  individual  lessenmg  day  by  day !  Fool,  go  and  be  a  saint, 
go  and  give  yourself  to  ideas;  go  and  live  the  life  hid  with 
Christ  in  God,  and  see  "—so  would  nm  the  quick  comment  of 
the  observer. 

But  incessant  as  was  the  reciprocity,  the  interchange  and 
play  of  feehng  between  Robert  and  the  wide  following  growing 
up  around  him,  it  was  plain  to  Flaxman  that  although  he  never 
moved  a  step  without  carrying  his  world  with  him,  he  was 
never  at  the  mercy  of  his  world.  Nothing  was  ever  really  left 
to  chance.  Through  all  these  strange  debates,  which  began  raw- 
ly and  clumsily  enough,  and  grew  every  week  more  and  more 
absorbing  to  all  concerned,  Flaxman  was  convinced  that  hard- 
ly any  rule  or  formula  of  the  new  society  was  ultimately  adopted 
which  had  not  been  for  long  in  Robert's  mind— thought  out 
and  brought  into  final  shape,  perhaps,  on  the  Petites  Dalles 
sands.  It  was  an  unobtrusive  art,  his  art  of  government,  but 
a  most  effective  one. 

At  any  moment,  as  Flaxman  often  felt,  at  any  rate  in  the 
early  meetings,  the  discussions  as  to  the  religious  practices 
which  were  to  bind  together  the  new  association  might  have 
passed  the  line,  and  become  puerile  or  grotesque.  At  any  mo- 
ment the  jarring  charactei-s  and  ambitions  of  the  men  Elsmere 
had  to  deal  with  might  have  dispersed  that  delicate  atmos- 
phere of  moral  sympathy  and  passion  in  which  the  whole  new 
bii"th  seemed  to  have  been  conceived,  and  upon  the  main- 
tenance of  which  its  fruition  and  development  depended. 
But  as  soon  as  Elsmere  appeared,  difficulties  vanished,  enthusi- 
asm sprung  up  again.  The  rules  of  the  new  society  came  sim- 
ply and  naturally  into  being,  steeped  and  haloed,  as  it  were, 
from  the  beginning,  in  the  passion  and  genius  of  one  great 
heart.  The  fastidious,  critical  instinct  in  Flaxman  was  silenced 
no  less  than  the  sour,  half-educated  analysis  of  such  a  man  as 
Lestrange. 

In  the  same  way  all  personal  jars  seemed  to  melt  away  beside 


EOBBBT  ELSMEEK. 


667 


him.  There  were  some  painful  things  connected  with  the  new 
departure.  Wardlaw,  for  instance,  a  conscientious  Gomtist,  re- 
fusing stoutly  to  admit  anything  more  than  ''an  unknowable 
reality  behind  phenomena,"  was  distressed  and  affronted  by  the 
strongly  religious  bent  Elsmere  was  giving  to  the  work  he  had 
begun.  Lestrange,  who  was  a  man  of  great  though  raw  ability, 
who  almost  always  spoke  at  the  meetings,  and  wkom  Robert 
was  bent  on  attaching  to  the  society,  had  times  when  the  thinga 
he  was  half -inclined  to  worship  one  day  he  was  much  more  in- 
clined  to  burn  the  next  in  the  sight  of  all  men,  and  when  the 
smallest  failure  of  temper  on  Robert's  part  might  have  entailed 
a  disagreeable  scene  and  the  possible  formation  of  a  harassing 
left  wing. 

Bub  Robert's  manner  to  Wardlaw  was  that  of  a  grateful 
younger  brother.  It:  was  clear  that  the  Gomtist  could  not 
formally  join  the  Brotherhood.  But  all  the  share  and  influence 
that  could  be  secured  him  in  the  practical  working  of  it  was  se- 
cured him.  And  what  was  more,  Robert  succeeded  in  infusing 
vhis  own  delicacy,  his  own  compunctions  on  the  subject,  intothG 
men  and  youths  who  had  profited  in  the  past  by  Wardlav^'js 
rough  self-devotion.  So  that  if,  through  much  that  went  on 
now,  he  could  only  be  a  spectator,  at  least  he  was  not  allowed 
to  feel  himself  an  alien  or  forgotten. 

As  to  Lestrange,  against  a  man  who  was  as  ready  to  laugh 
as  to  preach,  and  into  whose  ardent  soul  nature  had  infused  a 
saving  sense  of  the  whimsical  in  life  and  character,  cynicism 
and  vanity  seemed  to  have  no  case.  Robert's  quick  temper  had 
been  wonderfully  disciplined  by  Hfe  since  his  Oxford  days.  He 
had  now  very  little  of  that  stiff-neckedness,  so  fatal  to  the  aver- 
age reformer,  which  makes  a  man  insist  on  all  or  nothing  from 
his  followers.  He  took  what  each  man  had  to  give.  Nay,  he 
made  it  almost  seem  as  though  the  grudging  support  of  Les- 
trange, or  the  critical,  hal£-patronizing  approval  of  the  young 
barrister  from  the  west  who  came  down  to  listen  to  him,  and 
made  a  favor  of  teaching  in  his  night-school,  were  as  precious 
to  him  as  was  the  whole-hearted,  the  self-abandoning  venera* 
tion,  which  the  majority  of  those  about  him  had  begun  to  show 
toward  the  man  in  whom,  as  Gharles  Richards  said,  they  had 
''seen  God." 

At  last  by  the  middle  of  November  the  whole  great  building, 
with  the  exception  of  the  top  floor,  was  cleared  and  ready  for 
ipe.   Robert  felt  the  same  Joy  in  it,  in  its  clean  paint,  the  haK- 


668 


ROBERT  ELSMERB. 


filled  shelves  in  the  library,  the  pictures  standing  against  the 
walls  ready  to  be  hung,  the  rolls  of  bright  colored  matting  ready 
to  be  laid  down,  as  he  had  felt  in  the  Murewell  Institute.  He 
and  Flaxman,  helped  by  a  voluntary  army  of  men,  worked  at 
it  from  morning  till  night.  Only  Catherine  could  ever  per- 
suade him  to  remember  that  he  was  not  yet  physically  him- 
self. 

Then  came  the  day  when  the  building  was  formally  opened, 
when  the  gilt  letters  over  the  door,  The  New  Brotherhood 
of  Christ,"  shone  out  into  the  dingy  street,  and  when  the  first 
enrollment  of  names  in  the  book  of  the  Brotherhood  took  place. 

For  two  hours  a  continuous  stream  of  human  beings  sur« 
rounded  the  little  table  beside  which  Elsmere  stood,  inscribing 
their  names,  and  receiving  from  him  the  silver  badge,  bearing 
the  head  of  Christ,  which  was  to  be  the  outward  and  conspicu- 
ous sign  of  membership.  Men  came  of  all  sorts :  the  intelhgent, 
well-paid  artisan,  the  pallid  clerk  or  small  accountant,  stalwart 
warehousemen,  huge  carters  and  draymen,  the  boy  attached  to 
each  by  the  laws  of  the  profession  often  straggling  lumpishly 
behind  his  master.  Women  were  there :  wives  who  came  be- 
cause their  lords  came,  or  because  Mr.  Elsmere  had  been  **that 
good  "  to  them  that  anything  they  could  do  to  oblige  him  ''they 
would,  and  welcome;"  prim  pupil-teachers,  holding  themselves 
with  straight,  superior  shoulders ;  children,  who  came  trooping 
in,  grinned  up  into  Robert's  face  and  retreated  again  with  red 
cheeks,  the  silver  badge  tight  elapsed  in  hands  which  not  even 
much  scrubbing  could  make  passable. 

Flaxman  stood  and  watched  it  from  the  side.  It  was  an  ex- 
traordinary scene:  the  crowd,  the  slight  figure  on  the  platform, 
the  two  great  inscriptions,  which  represented  the  only '  *  articles" 
of  the  new  faith,  gleaming  from  the  freshly  colored  walls: 

•'In  Thee,  O  Eternal,  have  I  put  my  trust;** 
This  do  in  remembrance  of  Me;'* 

—the  TBGOTes  on  either  side  of  the  hall  lined  with  white  marble, 
and  destaned,  the  one  to  hold  the  names  of  the  living  members 
of  the  Brotherhood,  the  other  to  commemorate  those  who  had 
passed  ^^ay  (empty  this  last  save  for  the  one  poor  name  of 
**Charl^  Richards");  the  copies  of  Giotto's  Paduan  Virtues 
—faith,  fortitude,  charity,  and  the  like — which  broke  the  long 
waU  at  intervals.   The  cynic  in  the  on-looker  tried  to  assert 


SOBERT  ELSMEES. 


669 


itself  against  the  feeKm^  with  which  the  air  seemea  overcharged. 

In  vain.  .  i.. 

Whatever  comes  of  it,"  Flaxman  said  to  himself  with 
strong  involuntary  conviction,  whether  he  fails  or  no,  the 
spirit  that  is  moving  here  is  the  same  spirit  that  spread  the 
Church,  the  spirit  that  sent  out  Benedictine  and  Franciscan  into 
the  world,  that  fired  the  children  of  Luther,  or  Calvin,  or 
George  Fox;  the  spirit  of  devotion,  through  a  man,  to  an  idea; 
through  one  much-loved,  much-trusted  soul  to  some  eternal 
verity,  newly  caught,  newly  conceived,  behind  it.  There  is  no 
approaching  the  idea  for  the  masses  except  through  the  human 
life;  there  is  no  lasting  power  for  the  man  except  as  the  slave 
of  the  ideal" 

A  week  later  he  wrote  to  his  aunt  as  follows.  He  could  not 
write  to  her  of  Rose,  he  did  not  care  to  write  of  himself,  and 
he  knew  that  Elsmere's  club  address  had  left  a  mark  even  on 
her  restless  and  overcrowded  mind.  Moreover,  he  himself  was 
absorbed:  . 

We  are  in  the  full  stream  of  religion-making/  I  watch  it 
with  a  fascination  you  at  a  distance  can  not  possibly  understand, 
even  when  my  judgment  demurs,  and  my  intelligence  protests 
that  the  thing  can  not  live  without  Eismere,  and  that  Elsmere's 
life  is  a  frail  one.  After  the  ceremony  of  enrollment,  which  I 
described  to  you  yesterday,  the  Council  of  the  New  Brotherhood 
was  chosen  by  popular  election,  and  Eismere  gave  an  address. 
Two-thirds  of  the  council,  I  should  think,  are  working-men,  the 
rest  of  the  upper  class;  Eismere,  of  course,  president. 

Since  then  the  first  religious  service  under  the  new  consti- 
tution hap.  been  held.  The  service  is  extremely  simple,  and  the 
basis  of  the  whole  is  '  new  bottles  for  the  new  wine.'  The  open- 
ing prayer  is  recited  by  everybody  present  standing.  It  is  rather 
an  act  of  adoration  and  faith  than  a  prayer,  properly  so-called. 
It  represents,  in  fact,  the  placing  of  the  soul  in  the  presence  of 
God.  The  mortal  turns  to  the  eternal;  the  ignorant  and  im 
perfect  look  away  from  themselves  to  the  knowledge  and  per- 
fection of  the  All-Holy.  It  is  Elsmere's  drawing-up,  I  imag- 
ine—at any  rate  it  is  essentially  modem,  expressing  the  modern 
spirit,  answering  to  modern  need,  as  I  imagine  the  first  Chris- 
tian prayers  expressed  the  spirit  and  answered  to  the  need  of 
an  earlier  day. 

**Then  follows  some  passage  from  the  life  of  Christ.  Eis- 
mere reads  it  and  expounds  it,  in  the  first  place,  as  a  lecturer 


C70 


ROBEUT  KLSMERH^ 


might  expound  a  passage  of  Tacitiis,  histoi  ically  and  critically. 
His  explanation  of  miracle,  his  etforts  to  make  liis  audience 
realize  the  germs  of  miraculous  belief  which  each  man  carries 
with  him  in  the  constitution  and  inherited  furniture  of  his  mind, 
are  some  of  the  most  ingenious— perhaps  the  most  convincing 
— I  have  ever  heard.  My  heart  and  my  head  have  never  been 
very  much  at  one,  as  you  know,  on  this  matter  of  the  marvel- 
ous  element  in  rehgion. 

But  then  when  the  critic  has  done,  the  poet  and  the  behever 
begins.  Whether  he  has  got  hold  of  the  true  Christ  is  another 
matter ;  but  that  the  Christ  he  preaches  moves  the  human  heart- 
as  much  as— and  in  the  case  of  the  London  artisan,  more  than 
—the  current  orthodox  presentation  of  him,  I  begin  to  have 
ocular  demonstration. 

''I  was  present,  for  instance,  at  his  children's  Sunday  class 
the  other  day.  He  had  brought  them  up  to  the  story  of  the 
crucifixion,  reading  from  the  Revised  Version,  and  amplifying 
wherever  the  sense  required  it.  Suddenly  a  Uttle  girl  laid  her 
head  on  the  desk  before  her,  and  with  choking  sobs  implored 
him  not  to  go  on.  The  whole  class  seemed  ready  to  do  the  same. 
The  pure  human  pity  of  the  story — the  contrast  between  the 
innocence  and  the  pain  of  the  sufferer — seemed  to  be  more  than 
they  could  bear.  And  there  was  no  comforting  sense  of  a 
jugglery  by  which  the  suffering  was  not  real  after  all,  and  the 
sufferer  not  man  but  God. 

He  took  one  of  them  upon  his  knee  and  tried  to  console 
them.  But  there  is  something  piercingly  penetrating  and  aus- 
tere even  in  the  consolations  of  this  new  faith.  He  did  but  re- 
mind the  children  of  the  burden  of  gratitude  laid  upon  them. 
'  Would  you  let  Him  suffer  so  much  in  vain  ?  His  suffering 
has  made  you  and  me  happier  and  better  to-day,  at  this 
moment,  than  we  could  have  been  without  Jesus.  You  win 
understand  how,  and  why,  more  clearly  when  you  grow  up. 
Let  us  in  return  keep  Him  in  our  hearts  always,  and  obey  His 
words !  It  is  aU  you  can  do  for  His  sake,  just  as  aU  you  could 
do  for  a  mother  who  died  would  be  to  foUow  her  wishes  and 
sacredly  keep  her  memory.' 

* '  That  was  about  the  gist  of  it.  It  was  a  strange  little  scene, 
wonderfully  su^estive  and  pathetic. 

But  a  few  more  words  about  the  Sunday  service.  After 
the  address  came  a  hymn.  There  are  only  seven  hymns  in  the 
little  service-book,  gathered  out  of  the  finest  we  have.   It  ia 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


supposed  that  in  a  short  time  they  will  become  so  familiar  to 
the  members  of  the  Brotherhood  that  they  will  be  sung  readily 
by  heart.  The  singing  of  them  In  the  public  service  alternates 
with  an  equal  niunber  of  psalms.  And  both  psalms  and  hymns 
are  meant  to  be  recited  or  sung  constantly  in  the  homes  of  the 
members,  and  to  become  parfc  of  the  every-day  life  of  the 
Brotherhood.  They  have  been  most  carefully  chosen,  and  a 
sort  of  ritual  importance  has  been  attached  to  them  from  the 
beginning.  Each  day  in  the  week  has  its  particular  hymn  or 
psalm. 

**Then  the  whole  wound  up  with  another  short  prayer,  also 
repeated  standing,  a  commendation  of  the  individual,  the 
Brotherhood,  the  nation,  the  world,  to  God.  The  phrases  of  it 
are  terse  and  grand.  One  can  see  at  once  that  it  has  laid  hold 
of  the  popular  sense,  the  popular  memory.  The  Lord's  Prayer 
followed.  Then,  after  a  silent  pause  of  '  recollection,'  Elsmere 
dismissed  them. 

'Go  in  peace,  in  the  love  of  God,  and  in  the  memory  of  His 
servant,  Jesus, ^ 

I  looked  carefully  at  the  men  as  they  were  tramping  out. 
Some  of  them  were  among  the  Secularist  speakers  you  and  I 
heard  at  the  club  in  April.  In  my  wonder,  I  thought  of  a  say- 
ing of  Vinet's  :  '  C est  pour  la  religion  que  le  peuple  a  le  plus 
de  talent;  c^est  en  religion  quHl  montre  les  plus  d'e^rit^ 

In  a  later  letter  he  wrote : 

**I  have  not  described  to  you  what  is*perhaps  the  most 
characteristic,  the  most  binding  practice  of  the  New  Brother- 
hood. It  is  that  which  has  raised  most  angry  comment,  cries 
of  'profanity,'  '  wanton  insult,' and  what  not.  I  came  upon 
it  yesterday  in  an  interesting  way.  I  was  working  with  Els- 
mere at  the  arrangement  of  the  library,  which  is  now  becoming 
a  most  fascinating  place,  under  the  management  of  a  librarian 
chosen  from  the  neighborhood,  when  he  asked  me  to  go  and 
take  a  message  to  a  carpenter  who  has  been  giving  us  voluntary 
help  in  the  evenings  after  his  day's  work.  He  thought  that  as  it 
was  the  dinner  hour,  and  tlie  man  worked  in  the  dock  close  by 
I  might  find  him  at  home.  I  went  off  to  the  model  lodgingl 
house  where  I  was  told  to  look  for  him,  mounted  the  common 
stairs,  and  knocked  at  his  door.  Nobody  seemed  to  hear  me, 
and  as  the  door  was  ajar  I  pushed  it  open. 

''Inside  was  a  curious  sight.  The  table  was  spread  with  the  ' 
midday  meal,  a  few  bloaters,  gome  potatoes,  and  bread.  Round 


gY2  EGBERT  ELSMEEE. 

the  table  stood  four  children,  the  eldest  about  fourteen,  and  the 
youngest  six  or  seven.  At  one  end  of  it  stood  the  carpenter 
himself  in  his  working  apron,  a  brawny  Saxon,  bowed  a  httle 
by  his  trade.  Before  him  was  a  plate  of  bread,  and  his  homy 
hands  were  resting  on  it.  The  street  was  noisy ;  they  had  not 
heard  my  knock;  and  as  I  pushed  open  the  door  there  was  an 
old  coat  hanging  over  the  corner  of  it  which  concealed  me. 

Something  in  the  attitudes  of  all  concerned  reminded  me, 
kept  me  where  I  was,  silent.  j 
The  father  lifted  his  right  hand.  I 
*  *  *  The  Master  said :  ' '  This  do  in  remembrance  of  Me  '  "  ^ 
''The  children  stooped  for  a  moment  in  silence,  then  the 
youngest  said,  slowly,  in  a  little  softened  cockney  voice  that 
touched  me  extraordinarily :  ^ 
'''Jesus,  we  remember  Thee  always  P 
It  was  the  appointed  response.   As  she  spoke  I  recollected 
the  child  perfectly  at  Elsmere's  class.    T  also  remembered  that 
she  had  no  mother;  that  her  mother  had  died  of  cancer  m  June, 
visited  and  comforted  to  the  end  by  Elsmere  and  his  mfe. 

"  Well,  the  great  question  of  course  remains— is  there  a 
eufficient  strength  of  feeling  and  conviction  behind  these 
things  ?  If  so,  after  all,  everything  was  new  once,  and  Chris- 
tianity was  but  modified  Judaism." 

^  ''December  22. 

I  believe*'!  shall  sodn  be  as  deep  in  this  matter  as  Elsmere. 
In  Elgood  Street  great  preparations  are  going  on  for  Christmas. 
But  it  will  be  a  new  sort  of  Christmas.   We  shaU  hear  very  lit 
tie  it  seems,  of  angels  and  shepherds,  and  a  gi-eat  deal  of  the 
humble  chMhood  of  a  Httle  Jewish  boy  whose  genms  grown  to 
maturity  transformed  the  Western  world.  To  see  Elsmere,  with 
his  boys  and  girls  about  him,  trying  to  make  them  feel  them« 
selves  the  heirs  and  fellows  of  the  Nazarene  child,  to  make  them 
understand  something  of  the  lessons  that  child  must  have 
learned,  the  sights  he  must  have  seen,  and  the  thoughts  that 
must  have  come  to  him,  is  a  spectacle  of  which  I  will  not  misa 
more  than  I  can  help.   Don't  imagine,  however,  that  I  am  con^ 
verted  exactly  !-but  only  that  I  am  more  interested  and  stim- 
ulated than  I  have  been  forbears.    And  don^t  expect  me  for 
Christmas.   I  shall  stay  here." 

New-year  Vday. 

am  writing  from  the  library  of  the  New  Brotherhood. 
The  amount  of  activity,  social,  educational,  rehgiousrof  which 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


673 


this  great  building  promises  to  be  the  center  is  already  astonish- 
ing. Everything,  of  course  including  the  constitution  of  the 
infcint  society,  is  as  yet  purely  tentative  and  experimental.  But 
for  a  scheme  so  young,  things  are  falhng  into  working  order 
with  wonderful  rapidity.  Each  department  is  worked  by  com- 
mittees under  the  central  council.  Elsmere,  of  course,  is  ex- 
officio  chairman  of  a  large  proportion ;  Wardlaw,  Mackay,  I,  and 
a  X3W  other  fellows  ^run'  the  rest  for  the  pi^ont.  But  each 
committee  contains  working-pien ;  aud  it  is  the  object  of  every- 
body concerned  to  make  the  workman  element  more  and  more 
real  and  eflScient.  What  with  the  ^  tax '  on  the  members  which 
was  fixed  by  a  general  meeting,  and  the  contributions  from  out- 
side, the  society  already  commands  a  fair  income.  But  Elsmere 
is  anxious  not  to  attempt  too  much  at  once,  and  will  go  slowly 
and  train  his  workers. 

Music,  it  seems,  is  to  be  a  great  feature  in  the  future.  I 
have  my  own  projects  as  to  this  part  of  the  business,  which, 
however,  I  forbid  you  to  guess  at. 

*'By  the  rules  of  the  Brotherhood,  every  member  is  bound 
to  some  woi*k  in  connection  with  it  during  the  year,  but  little 
or  much,  as  he  or  she  is  able.  And  every  meeting,  every  un- 
dertaking of  whatever  kind,  opens  with  the  special  '  word'  or 
formula  of  the  society,  '  This  do  in  remembrance  of  Me.' " 

^  ''  January  6. 

Besides  the  Sunday  lectures,  Elsmere  is  pegging  away  on 
Saturday  evenings  at  '  The  History  of  the  Moral  Life  in  Man.' 
It  is  a  remarkable  course,  and  very  largely  attended  by  people 
of  all  sorts.  He  tries  to  make  it  an  exposition  of  the  leading 
principles  of  the  new  movement,  of  '  that  continuous  and  only 
revelation  of  God  in  life  and  nature,'  which  is  in  reality  the 
basis  of  his  whole  thought.  By  the  way,  the  letters  that  are 
pouring  in  upon  him  from  all  parts  are  extraordinary.  They 
show  an  [amount  and  degree  of  interest  in  ideas  of  the  kind 
which  are  surprising  to  a  Laodicean  like  me.  But  he  is  not  sur- 
prised—says he  always  expected  it— and  that  there  are  thou- 
sands who  only  want  a  rallying-point. 

'  His  personal  effect,  the  love  that  is  felt  for  him,'the  passion 
ar:d  energy  of  the  nature— never  has  our  generation  seen  any- 
thing to  equal  it.  As  you  perceive,  I  am  reduced  to  taking  it 
all  seriously,  and  don't  know  what  to  make  of  him  or  myself. 

**5A6,  poor  soul!  is  now  always  with  him,  comes  down  with 


1 


gY4  EOBBET  ELSMBBB. 

him  day  after  day,  and  works  away.  She  no  more  believes  in 
his  ideas,  I  think,  than  she  ever  did;  but  all  her  antagonism  is 
gone  In  the  midst  of  the  stir  about  him  her  face  often  haunts 
me.  It  has  changed  lately;  she  is  no  longer  a  young  woman, 
but  so  refined,  so  spiritual ! 

"But  he  is  ailing  and  fragile.    There  is  the  one  cloud  on  a 
scene  that  fiUs  me  with  increasmg  wonder  and  reverence." 

CHAPTEE  L. 

One  cold  Sunday  afternoon  in  January,  Flaxm'an,  descending 
the  steps  of  the  New  Brotherhood,  was  overtaken  by  a  young 
Dr  Edmondson,  an  able  young  physician,  just  set  up  for  him 
self  as  a  consultant,  who  had  only  lately  attached  himself  to 
Elsmere,  and  was  now  helping  him  with  eagerness  to  organize 
a  dispensary.  Young  Edmondson  and  Flaxman  exchanged  a 
few  words  on  Elsmere's  lecture,  and  then  the  doctor  said, 

^^""I'don't  like  his  looks  nor  his  voice.   How  -long  has  he  been 
hoarse  like  that?"  „  .  u 

' '  More  or  less  for  the  last  month.  He  is  very  much  worried 
by  it  himself,  and  talks  of  clergyman's  throat.  He  had  a  touch 
of  it,  it  appears,  once  in  the  country."  ,        .     .  ^„-m 

"Clergyman's  throat?"  Edmondson  shook  his  head  dubi- 
ously   ' '  It  may  be.   I  wish  he  would  let  me  overhaul  him. 

"I  wish  he  would!"  said  Flaxman,  devoutly.      I  wiU  see 
what  I  can  do.   I  wiU  get  hold  of  Mrs.  Elsmere^' 

Meanwhile  Robert  and  Catherine  had  driven  home  togethe^ 
As  they  entered  the  study  she  caught  his  hands,  a  suppressed 
and  exquisite  passion  gleaming  in  her  face. 

"You  did  not  explain  Him!  You  never  will!  ^ 
He  stood,  held  by  her,  his  gaze  meeting  hers.  Then  in  an 
instant  his  face  changed,  blanched  before  her-he  seemed  to 
gasp  for  breath-she  was  only  just  able  to  save  lum  from  fall- 
ing. It  was  apparently  another  swoon  of  exhaustion  As  she 
knelt  beside  him  on  the  floor,  having  done  for  him  al  she  could 
watching  his  return  to  consciousness,  Catherme's  look  would 
have  terrified  any  of  those  who  loved  her.  There  are  somena- 
tures  which  are  never  blind,  never  taken  blissfully  unawares, 
and  which  taste  calamity  and  grief  to  the  very  dregs. 

"Robert,  to-morrow  you  ivill  see  a  doctor?"  she  implored  ^ 
him  when  at  last  he  was  safely  in  bed-white,  but  smihng. 
He  nodded. 


BOBERT  ELSMERB. 


675 


"Send  for  Edmondson.  What  I  mind  most  is  this  hoarse- 
ness," he  said,  in  a  voice  that  was  little  more  than  a  tremulous 
whisper. 

Catherine  hardly  closed  her  eyes  all  night.  The  room,  the 
bouBe,  seemed  to  her  stifling,  oppressive,  like  a  grave.  And, 
by  ill-luck,  with  the  morning  came  a  long  expected  letter,  not 
indeed  from  the  squire,  but  about  the  squire.  Robert  had  been 
for  some  time  expecting  a  summons  to  Murewell.  The  squire 
had  written  to  him  last  in  October  from  Clarens,  on  the  Lake 
of  Geneva.  Since  then  weeks  had  passed  without  bringing 
Eismere  any  news  of  him  at  all.  Meanwhile  the  growth  of  the 
New  Brotherhood  had  absorbed  its  founder,  so  that  the  in- 
quiries which  should  have  been  sent  to  Murewell  had  been 
postponed.  The  letter  which  reached  him  now  was  from  old 
Meyrick.  ''The  squire  has  had  another  bad  attack,  and  is 
much  weaker.  But  his  mind  is  clear  again,  and  he  greatly  de- 
sires to  see  you.    If  you  can,  come  to-morrow." 

''His  mind  is  clear  again  /"  Horrified  by  the  words  and  by 
the  images  they  called  up,  remorseful  also  for  his  own  long 
silence,  Robert  sprung  up  from  bed,  where  the  letter  had  been 
brought  to  him,  and  presently  appeared  down-stairs,  where 
Catherine,  believing  him  safely  captive  for  the  morning,  was 
going  through  some  household  business. 

I  must  g#,  I  must  go !"  he  said,  as  he  handed  her  the  letter. 

Meyrick  puts  it  cautiously,  but  it  may  be  the  end!" 

Catherine  looked  at  him  in  despair. 
Robert,  you  are  like  a  ghost  yourself,  and  I  have  sent  for 
Doctor  Edmondson." 

Put  him  off  till  the  day  after  to-morrow.  Dear  little  wife, 
listen ;  my  voice  is  ever  so  much  better.  Murewell  air  v/ill  do 
me  good.'''  She  turned  away  to  hide  the  tears  in  her  eyes. 
Then  she  tried  fresh  persuasions,  but  it  was  useless.  His  look 
was  glowing  and  restless.  She  sav/  he  felt  it  a  call  impossible 
to  disobey.  A  .  ilegram  was  sent  to  Edmondson,  and  Robert 
drove  off  to  Waterloo. 

Out  of  the  fog  of  London  it  was  a  mild,  sunny  winter's  day. 
Robert  breathed  more  freely  with  every  mile.  His  eyes  took 
note  of  every  landmark  in  the  familiar  journey  with  a  thirsty 
eagerness.  It  was  a  year  and  a  half  since  he  had  traveled  it. 
He  forgot  his  weakness,  the  exhausting  pressure  and  pub- 
licity of  his  new  work.   The  past  possessed  him,  tiirust  out  the 


676 


ROBERT  ELSMBRB. 


present.  Surely  he  had  been  up  to  London  for  the  day  and 
was  going  back  to  Catherine ! 

At  the  station  he  haUed  an  old  friend  among  the  cabmen. 

-Take  me  to  the  corner  of  the  Mure  well  lane,  Tom.  Then 
you  may  drive  on  my  bag  to  the  Hall,  and  I  shaU  walk  over 
the  common." 

The  man  urged  on  his  tottei-ing  old  steed  with  a  will.  In  the 
streets  of  the  httle  town  Robert  saw  several  acquaintances  who 
stopped  and  stared  at  the  apparition.  Were  the  houses,  the 
•people  real,  or  was  it  all  a  haUucination-his  flight  and  his  re- 
turn so  unthought  of  yesterday,  so  easy  and  swift  to-day? 

By  the  time  they  were  out  on  the  wild  ground  between  the 
market  town  and  Murewell,  Robert's  spirits  were  as  buoyant 
as  thistle-down.  He  and  the  driver  kept  up  an  mcessant  gossip 
over  the  neighborhood,  and  he  jumped  down  from  the  car- 
riage as  the  man  stopped  with  the  alacrity  of  a  boy. 

"  Go  on  Tom ;  see  if  I  am  not  there  as  soon  as  you. 

"  Looks' most  imcommon  bad,"  the  man  muttered  to  him. 
self,  as  his  horse  shambled  off.    "  Seems  as  spry  as  a  lark  aU 

the  same."  ,      ,  .    t  ,     a  +i,«» 

Why  the  gorse  was  out,  positively  out  in  January!  and  tlie 
thrushes  were  singing  as  though  it  were  March.  Robert 
stopped  opposite  a  bush  covered  with  timid  half-opened  blooms 
and  thought  he  had  seen  nothing  so  beautiful  since  he  had  last 
trodden  that  road  in  spring.  Presently  he  was  in  the  same 
cart-track  he  had  crossed  on  the  night  of  his  confession  to 
Catherine;  he  lingered  beside  the  same  solitary  fir  on  the 
brink  of  the  ridge.  A  winter  world  lay  before  him ;  soft  brown 
woodland,  or  reddish  heath  and  fern,  struck  sideways  by  the 
sun.  clothing  the  earth's  bareness  everywhere-curling  mists 
-blue  points  of  distant  hiU-a  gray  luminous  depth  of  sky. 

The  eyes  were  moist,  the  lips  moved.  There  in  the  place  of 
his  old  anguish  he  stood  and  blessed  God  !-not  for  any  personal 
happiness,  but  simply  for  that  communication  of  Himself 
which  may  make  every  hour  of  common  living  a  revelation 

Twenty 'minutes  later,  leaving  the  park  gate  to  his  left  he 
hurried  up  the  lane  leading  to  the  vicarage.  One  look  !  he 
might  not  be  able  to  leave  the  squire  later.  J^f 
wood-path  was  ajar.  Surely  just  inside  it  be  sWd  find  Cath- 
erine  in  her  garden  hat,  the  white-frocked  child  dragging  be- 
hind her'  And  there  was  the  square  stone  house,  the  brown 
corii-field.  the  red-ferown  woods '  Why,  what  had  the  man  been 


EGBERT  ELSMEEE. 


677 


doing  with  the  study?  White  blinds  showed  it  was  a  bedroom 
now.  Vandal  I  Besides,  how  could  the  boys  have  free  access 
except  to  that  ground-floor  room?  And  all  that  pretty  stretch 
of  grass  under  the  acacia  had  been  cut  up  into  stiff  httle 
lozenge-shaped  beds,  filled,  he  supposed,  in  summer  with  the 
properest  geraniums.  He  should  never  dare  to  -tell  that  to 
Catherine. 

He  stood  and  watched  the  little  significant  signs  of  change 
in  this  realm,  wliich  had  been  once  his  own,  with  a  dissatisfied 
mouth,  his  undermind  filled  the  while  with  tempestuous  yearn- 
ing and  affection.  In  that  upper  room  he  had  lain  through 
that  agonized  night  of  crisis;  the  dawn-twitterings  of  the  sum- 
mer birds  seemed  to  be  still  in  his  ears.  And  there,  in  the  dis- 
tance, was  the  blue  wreath  of  smoke  hanging  over  Mile  End. 
Ah!  the  new  cottages  must  be  warm  this  winter.  The  chil- 
dren did  not  lie  in  the  wet  any  longer— thank  God !  Yv^as  there 
time  just  to  run  down  to  Irwin's  cottage,  to  have  a  look  at  the 
institute? 

He  had  been  standing  on  the  further  side  of  the  road  from 
the  rectory  that  he  might  not  seem  to  be  spying  out  the  land 
and  his  successor's  ways  too  closely.  Suddenly  he  found  him- 
self chnging  to  a  gate  near  him  that  led  into  a  field.  He  was 
shaken  by  a  horrible  struggle  for  breath.  The  self  seemed  to 
be  foundering  in  a  stifling  sea,  and  fought  like  a  drowning 
thing.  When  the  moment  passed,  he  looked  round  him  bewil- 
dered, drawing  his  hand  across  his  eyes.  The  world  had  grown 
black— the  sun  seemed  to  be  scarcely  shining.  Were  those  the 
sounds  of  children's  voices  on  the  hill,  the  rumbling  of  a  cart— 
or  was  it  all,  sight  and  sound  alike,  mirage  and  delirium? 

With  difficulty,  leaning  on  his  stick  as  though  he  were  a  man 
of  seventy,  he  groped  his  way  back  to  the  park.  There  he 
sunk  down,  still  gasping,  among  the  roots  of  one  of  the  great 
cedars  near  the  gate.  After  awhile  the  attack  passed  off  and 
he"  found  himself  able  to  walk  on.  But  the  joy,  the  leaping 
pulse  of  half  an  hour  ago,  were  gone  from  his  veins.  Was  that 
the  river— the  house?  He  looked  at  them  with  duU  eyes.  All 
the  light  was  lowered.  A  veil  seemed  to  lie  between  him  and 
the  familiar  things. 

However,  by  the  t|me  he  reached  the  door  of  the  Hall  will 
and  nature  had  reasserts  themselves,  and  he  knew  where  he 
was  and  what  he  had  to  do. 

Vincent  flung  the  dooj-  open  ^h  his  old  lordly  air 


678 


EOBEET  ELSMERK. 


*'Why,  sir!  Mr,  Elsmere!" 

The  butler's  voice  began  on  a  note  of  joyful  surprise,  sliding 
at  once  into  one  of  alarm.  He  stood  and  stared  at  this  ghost 
of  the  old  rector. 

Elsmere  grasped  his  hand,  and  asked  him  to  take  him  into 
the  dining-room  and  'give  him  some  wine  before  announcing 
him.  Vincent  ministered  to  him  with  a  long  face,  pressing  all 
the  alcoholic  resources  of  the  Hall  upon  him  in  turn.  The  . 
squire  was  much  better,  he  declared,  and  had  been  carried 
down  to  the  library. 

''But,  Lor',  sir,  there  ain't  much  to  be  said  for  your  looks 
neither— seems  as  if  London  didn't  suit  you,  sir." 

Elsmere  explained  feebly  that  he  had  been  suffering  from  his 
throat,  and  had  overtired  himself  by  walking  over  the  common. 
Then,  recognizing  from  a  distorted  vision  of  himself  in  a  Vene- 
tian mirror  hanging  by  that  something  of  his  natural  color 
had  returned  to  him,  he  rose  and  bade  Vincent  announce  him. 

''And  Mrs.  Darcy?"  he  asked,  as  they  stepped  out  into  the 
hall  again. 

'^  Oh,  Mrs.  Darcy,  sir,  she's  very  well,"  said  the  man,  but,  as 
it  seemed  to  Robert,  with  something  of  an  embarrassed  air. 

He  followed  Vincent  down  the  long  passage— haunted  V  old 
memories,  by  the  old  sickening  sense  of  mental  anguish— to  the 
curtained  door.  Vincent  ushered  him  in.  There  was  a  stir  of 
feet,  and  a  \^ice,  but  at  first  he  saw  nothing.  The  room  was 
very  much  darkened.  Then  Meyrick  emerged  into  distinctness. 

"Squire,  here  is  Mr.  Elsmere!  Well,  Mr.  Elsmere,  sir,  I'm 
sure  we're  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  meeting  the  squire's 
wishes  so  promptly.  You'll  find  him  poorly,  Mr.  Elsmere,  but 
mending— oh,  yes,  mending,  sir— no  doubt  of  it." 

Elsmere  began  to  perceive  a  figure  by  the  fire.  A  bony  hand 
was  advanced  to  him  out  of  the  gloom. 

' '  That'll  do,  Meyrick.   You  won't  be  wanted  till  the  evening." 
The  imperious  note  in  the  voice  struck  Robert  with  a  sudden 
sense  of  relief.   After  all,  the  squire  was  ^till  capable  of  tramp- 
ling on  Meyrick. 

In  another  minute  the  door  had  closed  on  the  old  doctor,  and 
the  two  men  were  alone.  Robert  was  beginning  to  get  used  to 
the  dim  light.  Out  of  it  the  squire's  Jace  gleamed  ahnost  as 
whitely  as  the  tortured  marble  of  the  Medusa  just  above  their 
heads  * 

'^It's  some  inflammation  in  che  eye§,"  the  squire  explained 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


679 


briefly,  "  that's  made  Meyrick  set  up  all  this  d  d  business  of 

blinds  and  shutters.  I  'don't  mean  to  stand  it  much  longer. 
The  eyes  are  better,  and  I  prefer  to  see  my  way  out  of  the 
world,  if  possible." 

''But  you  are  recovering?"  Robert  said,  laying  his  hand 
affectionately  on  the  old  man's  knee. 

have  added  to  my  knowledge,"  said  the  squire,  dryly 
''Like  Heine,  I  am  qualified  to  give  lectures  in  heaven  on  the 
ignorance  of  doctors  on  eatth.  And  I  am  not  in  bed,  which  1 
was  last  week.  For  Heaven's  sake  don't  ask  questions.  II 
there  is  a  loathsome  subject  on  earth  it  is  the  subject  of  tho 
human  body.  Well,  I  suppose  my  message  to  you  dragged  you 
away  from  a  thousand  things  you  had  rather  be.  doing.  What 
are  you  so.  hoarse  for?  Neglecting  yourself  as  usual,  for  the 
sake  of  '  the  people,'  who  wouldn't  even  subscribe  to  bury  you? 
Have  you  been  working  up  the  Apocrypha^as  I  recommended 
you  l^fst  time  we  met?" 

Robert  smiled. 

"For  the  last  four  months,  squire,  I  have  been  doing  two 
things  with  neither  of  which  had  you  much  sympathy  in  old 
days— holiday-making  and  '  slumming.' " 

"Oh,  I  remember,"  interrupted  the  squire,  hastily.  "I  was 
low  last  week,  and  read  the  Church  papers  by  way  of  a  counter- 
irritant.  You  have  been  starting  a  new  religion,  T  see.  A  new 
religion!   Humph  I^'* 

The  great  head  fell  forward,  and  through  the  dusk  Robert 
caught  the  sarcastic  gleam  of  the  eyes. 

"You  are  hardly  the  man  to  deny,"  he  said,  undisturbed, 
"  that  the  old  ones  laissent  a  desirer,'^^ 

"Because  there  are  old  abuses,  is  that  any  reason  why  you 
should  go  and  set  up  a  brand-new  one--an  ugly  anachronism 
besides,"*  retorted  the  squire.  "However,  you  and  I  have  no 
common  ground— never  had.  I  say  know,  you  say  feel.  Where 
is  the  difference,  after  all,  between  you  and  any  charlatan  of 
the  lot?  Well,  how  is  Madame  de  Netteville?" 

"I  have  not* seen  her  for  six  months,"  Robert  replied,  with 
equal  abruptness. 

The  squire  laughed  a  little  under  his  breath. 

"  What  did  you  think  of  her?" 

"Very  much  what  you  told  me  to  think— intellectually," 
replied  Robert,  facing  him,  but  flushing  with  the  readiness  of 
physical  delicacy. 


ggQ  ROBERT  ELSMERE. 

Well,  I  certainly  never  told  you  to  think  anything— mor- 
ally,"'  said  the  squire.  ''The  word  moral  has  no  relation  to 
her.    Whom  did  you  see  there?" 

The  catechism  was  naturally  most  distasteful  to  its  object, 
but  Elsmere  went  through  with  it,  the  squire  watching  him  for 
awlnle  with  an  expression  which  had  a  spark  of  mahce  in  it. 
It  is  not  unhkely  that  some  gossip  of  the  Lady  Aubrey  sort  had 
reached  him.  Elsmere  had  always  seemed  to  him  oppressively 
good.  The  idea  that  Mme.  de  NelteviUe  had  tried  her  arts 
upon  him  was  not  without  its  piquancy. 

But  while  Robert  was  answering  a  question  he  was  aware  of 
^subtle  change  in  the  squire's  attitude-a  relaxation  of  his  own 
eense  of  tension.  After  a  minute  he  bent  forward,  peermg 
through  the  darkness.  The  squire's  head  had  fsJlen  b9ck,  his 
mouth  was  slightly  open,  and  the  breath  came  Ughtly,  quiver- 
ingly  through.  Tte  cynic  of  a  moment  ago  had  dropped  sud- 
denly into  a  sleep  of  more  than  chMish  weakness  and  defense- 
iessness. 

Robert  remained  bending  forward,  gazing  at  the  man  who 
had  once  meant  so  much  to  him. 

Strange  white  face,  sunk  in  the  great  chair !  Behind  it  ghm- 
mered  the  DonateUo  figure,  and  the  divine  Hermes,  a  glorious 
shape  in  the  dusk,  looking  scorn  on  human  decrepitude.  AU 
round  spread  the  dim  walls  of  books.  The  Ufe  they  had 
nourished  was  dropping  into  the  abyss  out  of  ken-they  re- 
mained. Sixty  years  of  effort  and  slavery  to  end  so— a  river 
lost  in  the  sands!  ,     ,  • 

Old  Meyrick  stole  in  again,  and  stood  looking  at  the  sleeping 

^'^^A  bad  sign!  a  bad  sign!"  he  said,  and  shook  his  head 

mournfully.  ,    ■■    i.-  u 

After  he  had  made  an  effort  to  take  some  food  which  \m- 
cent  pressed  upon  him,  Robert,  conscious  of  a  stronger  physical 
malaise  than  had  ever  yet  tormented  him,  was  crossmg  the 
hall  again,  when  he  suddenly  saw  Mrs.  Darcy  at  the  door  of  a 
room  which  opened  into  the  hall.  He  went  up  to  her  with  a 
warm  greeting.  ^ 

"Are  you  going  in  to  the  squire?  Let  us  go  together. 

She  looked  at  him  with  no  surprise,  as  though  she  had  seen 
him  the  day  before,  and  as  he  spoke  she  retreated  a  step  mto 
the  room  behind  her,  a  curious  film,  so  it  seemed  to  him,  dark- 
ening her  small  gray  eyes.  ^ 


EOBEET  ELSMERE. 


681 


''The  squire  is  not  here.  He  is  gone  away.  Have  you  seen 
my  white  mice?  Oh,  they  are  such  darlings!  Only,  one  of 
them  is  ill,  and  they  won't  let  me  have  the  doctor." 

Her  voice  .sunk  into  the  most  pitiful  plaintiveness.  She 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  pointing  with  an  elfish  finger 
to  a  large  cage  of  white  mice  which  stood  in  the  window.  The 
room  seemed  full,  besides,  of  other  creatures.  Eohert  stood 
rooted,  looking  at  the  tiny  withered  figure  in  the  black  dress, 
its  snowy  hair  and  diminutive  face  s  vvathed  in  lace,  with  a  per- 
plexity into  which  there  slipped  an  involuntary  shiver.  Sud- 
denly he  became  aware  of  a  woman  by  the  fire,  a  decent,  strong- 
looking  body  in  gray,  who  rose  as  his  look  turned  to  her.  Their 
eyes  met ;  her  expression  and  the  little  jerk  of  her  head  toward 
Mrs.  Darcy,  who  was  now  standing  by  the  cage  coaxing  the 
mice  with  the  weirdest  gestures,  were  enough.  Eobert  turned, 
and  went  out  sick  at  heart.  The  careful,  exquisite  beauty  of  the 
great  hall  struck  him  as  something  mocking  and  anti-human. 

No  one  else  in  the  house  said  a  word  to  him  of  Mrs.  Darcy. 
In  the  evening  the  squire  talked  much  at  intervals,  but  in  an- 
other key.  He  insisted  on  a  certain  amount  of  light,  and, 
leaning  on  Robert's  arm,  went  feebly  round  the  book-shelves. 
He  took  out  one  of  the  volumes  of  the  Fathers  that  Newman 
had  given  him. 

When  I  think  of  the  hours  I  wasted  over  this  barbarous 
rubbish,"  he  said,  his  blanched  fingers  turning  the  leaves  vin- 
dictively, ''and  of  the  other  hours  I  maundered  away  in  serv- 
ices and  self-examination  !  Thank  Heaven,  however,  the  germ 
of  revolt  and  sanity  was  always  there.  And  wlien  once  I  got  to 
it,  I  learned  my  lesson  pretty  quick." 

Eobert  paused,  his  kind,  inquiring  eyes  looking  down  on  the 
shrunken  squire. 

"  Oh,  not  one  you  have  any  chance  of  learning,  my  good 
friend,"  said  the  other,  aggressively.  ''And  after  all  it's  sim- 
ple. Go  to  your  grave  with  your  eyes  open—th^Vs  all.  But 
men  don't  learn  it,  somehow.  Newman  was  incapable— so  are 
you.  All  the  religions  are  nothing  but  so  many  vulgar 
anaesthetics,  which  only  the  few  have  courage  to  refuse." 

"Do  you  want  me  to  contradict  you  ?"  said  Eobert,  smiling; 

I  am  quite  ready." 

The  squire  took  no  notice.  Presently,  when  he  was  in  his 
chair  again,  he  said,  abruptly,  pointing  to  a  mahogany  bureau 
in  the  window,  '*The  book  is  all  there— both  parts,  first  and 


682 


EOBEET  ELSMEEE. 


second.  Publish  it  if  you  please.  If  not,  throw  it  into  the  fire. 
Both  are  equally  indifferent  to  me.  It  has  done  its  work;  it 
has  helped  me  through  half  a  century  of  hving." 

*'It  shall  be  to  me  a  sacred  trust,"  said  Elsmere,  with  emo-, 
tion.    ''Of  course  if  you  don't  pubhsh  it,  I  shall  publish  it." 

''As  you  please.  Well,  then,  if  you  have  nothing  more  ra- 
tional to  tell  me  about,  tell  me  of  this  ridiculous  Brotherhood 
of  yours." 

Robert,  so  adjured,  began  to  talk,  but  with  difficulty.  The 
words  would  not  flow,  and  it  was  almost  a  relief  when  in  the 
middle  that  strange  creeping  sleep  overtook  the  squire  again. 

Meyrick,  who  was  staying  in  the  house,  and  who  had  been 
coming  in  and  out  through  the  evening,  eying  Elsmere,  now 
that  there  was  more  light  on  the  scene,  with  almost  as  much 
anxiety  and  misgiving  as  the  squire,  was  summoned.  The 
squire  was  put  into  his  carrying-chair.  Vincent  and  a  male  at- 
tendant appeared,  and  he  was  borne  to  his  room,  Meyrick  per- 
emptorily refusing  to  allow  Eobert  to  lend  so  much  as  a  finger 
to  the  performance.  They  took  him  up  the  library  stairs, 
through  the  empty  book-rooms  and  that  dreary  room  which 
had  been  his  father's,  and  so  into  his  own.  By  the  time  they 
set  him  down  he  was  quite  awake  and  conscious  again. 

"It  can't  be  said  that  I  follow  my  own  precepts,"  he  said  to 
Robert,  grimly,  as  they  put  him  down.  "Not  much  of  the 
open  eye  about  this.  I  shall  sleep  myself  into  the  imknown  as 
sweetly  as  any  saint  in  the  calendar." 

Robert  was  going  when  the  squire  called  him  back. 

"  You'U  stay  tcT-morrow,  Elsmere  ?" 

"Of  course,  if  you  wish  it." 

The  wrinkled  eyes  fixed  him  intently. 

"Why  did  you  ever  go  ?" 

"As  I  told  you  before,  squire,  because  there  was  nothing 
else  for  an  honest  man  to  do." 

The  squire  turned  round  with  a  frown. 

"What  the  deuce  are  you  dawdling  about,  Benson?  Give 
me  my  stick  and  get  me  out  of  this." 

By  midnight  all  was  still  in  the  vast  pile  of  Murewell.  Out- 
side, the  night  was  shghtly  frosty.  A  clear  moon  shone  over 
the  sloping  reaches  of  the  park;  the  trees  shone  silverly  in  the 
cold  light,  their  black  shadows  cast  along  the  grass.  Robert 
found  himself  quartered  in  the  Stuart  room,  where  James  II. 
had  slept,  and  where  the  tartas  hangings  of  the  ponderous 


ROBERT  ELSMEEE. 


683 


carved  bed,  and  the  rose  and  thistle  reliefs  of  the  walls  and  ceil- 
ings, untouched  for  two  hundred  years,  bore  witness  to  the 
loyal  preparations  made  by  some  by-gone  Wendover.  He  was 
mortally  tired,  but  by  way  of  distracting  his  thoughts  a  little 
from  the  squire,  and  that  other  tragedy  which  the  great  house 
sheltered  somewhere  in  its  wa^s,  he  took  from  his  coat  pocket 
a  French  Anthologie"  which  had  been  Catherine's  birthday 
gift  to  him,  and  read  a  little  before  he  fell  asleep. 

Then  he  slept  profoundly— the  sleep  of  exhaustion.  Sud- 
denly he  found  himself  sitting  up  in  bed,  his  heart  beating  to 
suffocation,  strange  noises  in  his  ears. 

A  cry  "Help!"  resounded  through  the  wide,  empty  gal- 
leries. 

He  flung  on  his  dressing-gown,  and  ran  out  in  the  direction 
of  the  squire's  room. 

The  hideous  cries  and  scufiaing  grew  more  apparent  as  he 
reached  it.  At  that  moment  Benson,  the  man  who  had  helped 
to  carry  the  squire,  ran  up. 

"My  God,  sir!"  he  said,  deadly  white,  "  another  attack!" 

The  squire's  room  was  empty,  but  the  door  into  the  lumber- 
room  adjoining  it  was  open,  and  the  stifled  sounds  came 
through  it. 

They  rushed  in  and  found  Meyrick  struggling  in  the  grip  of 
a  white  figure,  that  seemed  to  have  the  face  of  a  fiend  and  the 
grip  of  a  tiger.  Those  old  bloodshot  eyes— those  wrinkled 
bands  on  the  throat  of  the  doctor— horrible ! 

They  released  poor  Meyrick,  who  staggered,  bleeding,  into 
i;he  squire's  room.  Then  Robert  and  Benson  got  the  squire 
back  by  main  force.  The  whole  face  was  convulsed,  the  poor, 
shrunk^en  limbs  rigid  as  iron.  Meyrick,  who  was  sitting  gasp- 
ing, by  a  superhuman  effort  of  will  mastered  himself  enough 
to  give  directions  for  a  strong  opiate.  Benson  managed  to  con^ 
trol  the  madman  while  Robert  found  it.  Then  between  then? 
they  got  it  swallowed. 

But  nature  had  been  too  quick  for  them.  Before  the  opiate 
could  have  had  time  to  work,  the  squire  shrunk  together  like  i 
puppet  of  which  the  threads  are  loosened,  and  fell  heavily  side 
ways  out  of  his  captors'  hands  on  to  the  bed.  They  laid  him 
there,  tenderly  covering  him  from  the  January  cold.  Th^ 
swollen  eyelids  fell,  leaving  just  a  thread  of  white  visible  un- 
derneath; the  clinched  hands  slowly  relaxed;  the  loud  breath 
ing  seemed  to  be  the  breathing  of  death.  ^ 


684 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


Meyrick,  whose  wound  on  the  head  had  been  hastily  bouud 
up,  threw  himself  beside  the  bed.  The  night-light  beyond  cast 
a  grotesque  shadow  of  him  on  the  wall,  emphasizing,  as  though 
in  mockery,  the  long,  straight  back,  the  ragged  whiskers,  the 
strange  ends  and  horns  of  the  bandage.  But  the  passion  in  the 
old  face  was  as  purely  tragic  as  any  that  ever  spoke  through 
the  hps  of  an  Antigone  or  a  Gloucester. 

*'The  last— the  last!"  he  said,  choked,  the  tears  falling 
down  his  lined  cheeks  on  to  the  squire's  hand.  He  can  never 
rally  from  this.  And  I  was  fool  enough  to  think  yesterday  I 
had  pulled  him  through !" 

Again  a  long  gaze  of  inarticulate  grief;  then  he  looked  up 
at  Eobert. 

''He  wouldn't  have  Benson  to-night.  I  slept  in  the  next 
room  with  the  door  ajar.  A  few  minutes  ago  I  heard  him 
moving.  I  was  up  in  an  instant,  and  found  him  standing  by 
that  door,  peering  through,  bare-footed,  a  wind  like  ice 
coming  up.  He  looked  at  me,  frowning,  all  in  a  flame. 
'  My  father,'  he  said—*  my  father— he  went  that  way— what  do 
you  want  here?  Keep  back ! '  'l  threw  myself  on  him ;  he  had 
something  sharp  which  scratched  me  on  the  temple;  I  got 
that  away  from  him,  but  it  was  his  hands"— and  the  old 
man  shuddered.  ''I  thought  they  would  have  done  for  me 
before  any  one  could  hear,  and  that  then  he  would  kill 
himself  as  his  father  did." 

Again  he  hung  over  the  figure  on  the  bed— his  own  withei:ed 
hand  stroking  that  of  the  squire  with  a  yearning  affection. 
When  was  the  last  attack?"  asked  Robert,  sadly. 

''A  month  ago,  sir,  just  after  they  got  back.  Ah,  Mr. 
Elsmere,  he  suffered.  And  he's  been  so  lonely.  No  one  to 
cheer  him,  no  one  to  please  him,  with  his  food— to  put  his 
cushions  right— to  coax  him  up  a  bit,  and  that— and  his  poor 
sister  too,  always  there  before  his  eyes.  Of  course  he  would 
stand  to  it  he  liked  to  be  alone.  But  I'll  never  believe  men 
are  made  so  unlike  one  to  the  other.  The*  Almighty  meant 
a  man  to  have  a  wife  or  a  child  about  him  when  he  comes 
to  the  last.  He  missed  you,  sir,  when  you  went  away.  Not 
that  he'd  say  a  word,  but  he  moped.  His  books  didn't  seem 
to  please  him,  nor  anything  else.  I've  just  broke  my  heart 
over  him  this  last  year." 

There  was  silence  a  moment  in  the  big  room,  hung  round 
with  the  shai>es  of  by  -gone  Wendovers.   The  opiate  had  tak^' 


EOBBBT  ELSMEEE. 


nfl^^r^t  The  squire's  countenance  was  no  longer  convulsed. 
T^e  tea?broTwascalm:  a  more  than  common  dignity  and 
ihegreat  Drow  wd,  peaked  face.   Eobert  bent  over 

SSl^^lbt  mXat      c^^^^^  -ay:  the  dying 

scholar  and  thinker  lay  before  him. 

"  Will  he  rally?"  he  asked,  under  his  breath. 

Mevrick  shook  his  head. 

"I  doubt  it.   It  has  exhausted  all  the  strength  he  had 
left    The  heart  isfailing  rapidly.   I  think  he  will  sleep  away 
And  Mr.  Elsmere,  you  go-go  and  sleep.   Benson  and  1  11 
tatch    Oh,  my  scratch  is  nothing,  sir.   I'm  used  to  a  rough- 
rltmble  life?^  But  you  go.  If  there's  a  change  we'll  wake 

^Elsmere  bent  down  and  kissed  the  squire's  forehead  tende^^^ 
ly  as  a  son  might  have  done.  By  this  time  he  himself  could 
harSy  stand.  He  crept  away  to  Ms  own  room,  his  nerves  stiU 
qSing  with  the  terror  of  that  sudden  waking,  the  horror  of 

M  wa™fmpossible  to  sleep.  The  moon  was  at  the  full  outside^ 
ie  drew  back  the  curtains,  made  up  the  fire,  and,  wrapping 
himself  ila  fur  coat  which  Flaxman  had  lately  forced  upon 
S  sat  where  he  could  see  the  moonUghted  park,  and  still  be 

within  the  range  of  the  blaze.  f^^^H^h  weak- 

As  the  excitement  passed  away  a  reaction  of  ^verish  weak 
nets  se^^in  The  strangest  whirlwind  of  thoughts  fied  through 
h  m  in  the  darkness,  suggested  very  often  by  the  figures  on  the 
seventeenth-century  tapestry  which  '^^^J^^lZ^!.^elnl"s 
those  the  trees  in  the  wood-path?  Surely  t^^Jf^^^^^^^f^' 
fleure  traiUng-and  that  dome-strange!  Was  he  still  walk 
S  Grey's  funeral  procession,  the  Oxford  buildings  looking 
Sdly  down?  Death  here!  Death  there!  Death  ^y^^i 
vawning  under  life  from  the  beginning!  The  veil  which  hides 
Tco"  mon  abyss,  in  sight  of  which  men  could  not  alw^^^^ 
hold  themselves  and  live,  is  rent  asunder,  and  he  looks,  shud 

Srimage  changed,  and  in  its  stead,  Jh^^old  faM^^^^ 
image  of  the  river  of  Death  took  possession  of  him.  stood 
hTmself  on  the  brink;  on  the  other  s  de  -/^^.G^rey  ^d^e 
sauire  But  he  felt  no  pang  of  separation,  of  pam ;  for Jie  hun- 
seS  was  jit  about  to  cross  and  join  them!  And  during  a 
^^nge,  brief  lull  of  feeling  the  mind  harbored  nnage  and  ex- 
pectation  alike  with  perfect  calm. 


686 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


Then  the  fever  spell  broke— the  brain  cleared— and  he  was 
terribly  himself  again.  Whence  came  it-this  fresh,  inexora- 
ble consciousness?  He  tried  to  repel  it,  to  forget  himself,  to 
cling  blindly,  without  thought,  to  God's  love  and  Catherine's. 
But  the  anguish  mounted  fast.  On  the  one  hand,  this  fast- 
growing  certainty,  urging  aud  penetrating  through  every  nerve 
and  fiber  of  the  shaken  frame;  on  the  other,  the  ideal  fabric  of 
his  efforts  and  his  dreams,  the  New  Jerusalem  of  a  regenerate 
faith;  the  poor,  the  loving,  and  the  simple  walking  therein!^ 

''My  God!  my  OodI  no  time,  no  future!  " 

In  his  misery  he  moved  to  the  uncovered  window,  and  stood 
looking  through  it,  seeing  and  not  seeing.  Outside,  the  river, 
just  filmed  with  ice,  shone  under  the  moon;  over  it  bent  the 
trees,  laden  with  hoar-frost.  Was  that  a  heron,  rising  for  an 
instant,  beyond  the  bridge,  in  the  unearthly  blue? 

And  quietly— heavily— like  an  irrevocable  sentence,  there 
^  ime,  breathed  to  him  as  it  were  from  that  winter  cold  and 
loneliness,  words  that  he  had  read  an  hour  or  two  before,  in  the 
little  red  book  beside  his  hand— words  in  which  the  gayest  of 
French  poets  has  fixed,  as  though  by  accident,  the.  most  tragic 
of  all  hufnan  cries  : 

"  Quittez  le  long  espoir,  et  les  vastes  pensees.*' 

He  sunken  his  knees,  wrestling  with  himself  and  with  the 
bitter  longing  for  life,  and  the  same  words  rang  through  him, 
deafening  every  cry  but  their  own. 

Quittez— quittez— le  long  espoir  et  les  vastes  pensees!^^ 

CHAPTER  LI. 

There  is  little  more  to  tell.  The  man  who  had  lived  so  fast 
was  no  long  time  dying.  The  eager  soul  was  swift  in  this  as  in 
all  else. 

The  day  after  Elsmere's  return  to  Murewell,  where  he  left  the 
squire  still  alive  (the  telegram  announcing  the  death  reached 
Bedford  Square  a  few  hours  after  Eobert's  arrival),  Edmondson 
came  up  to  see  him  and  examine  him.  He  discovered  tuber- 
cular disease  of  the  larynx,  which  begins  with  slight  hoarseness 
and  weakno.!s,  and  develops  into  one  of  the  most  rapid  forms 
of  phthisis.  In  his  opinion  it  had  been  originally  set  up  by  the 
effects  of  the  cliill  at  Petites  D^^lles  acting  upon  a  constitution 
never  strong,  and  at  that  moment  peculiarly  susceptible  to  mis- 


BOBBBT  BLSMEEB.  687 

cMef.  And  of  course  the  speaking  and  preaching  of  the  last 
four  months  had  done  enormous  harm.  _ 

It  was  with  great  outward  composure  that  Elsmere  received 
his  arrit  de  mort  at  the  hands  of  the  young  doctor,  who  an- 
nounced the  result  of  his  exammation  with  a  hesitatmg  hp  and 
a  voice  which  struggled  in  vam  to  preserve  its  professional 
calm  He  knew  too  much  of  medicine  himself  to  he  deceived 
by  Edmondson's  optimist  remarks  as  to  the  possible  effect  of  a 
warm  climate  hke  Algiers  on  his  condition.  He  sat  down,  rest- 
ing his  head  on  his  hands  a  moment;  then,  wringing  Edmond- 
son's hand,  he  went  out  feebly  to  find  his  wife. 

Cathermehad  been  waiting  in  the  dining-room,  her  whole 
soul  one  dry  tense  misery.  She  stood  looking  out  of  ,the  win- 
dow taking  curious  heed  of  a  Jewish  wedding  that  was  gomg 
on  in  the  square,  of  the  preposterous  bouquets  of  the  coachman  - 
and  the  gaping  circle  of  errand-boys.  How  pinched  the  bride 
looked  in  the  north  wind! 

When  the  door  opened  and  Catherme  saw  her  husband  come 
m-her  young  husband,  to  whom  she  had  been  married  not 
vet  four  years-with  that  indescribable  look  in  the  eyes  which 
seemed  to  divine  and  confirm  all  those  terror^which  had  been 
shaking  her  during  her  agonized  waiting,  there  followed  a  mo- 
ment between  them  which  words  can  not  render  When  it 
ended-that  half-articula-te  convulsion  of  love  and  anguKh- 
she  found  herself  sitting  on  the  sofa  beside  him,  his  head  on 
her  breast,  his  hand  clasping  "hers. 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  go,  Catherine?"  he  asked  her,  gently- 
"  to  Algiers?" 

Her  eyes  implored  for  her.  -n  i 

" Then  I  wUl,"  he  said,  but  with  a  long  sigh.  "It  will  only 
prolong  it  two  months,"  he  thought ;  "  and  does  one  not  owe  it 
to  the  people  for  whom  one  has  tried  to  Uve,  to  make  a  brave 
end  among  them?  Ah,  no !  no  I  those  two  months  are  hers! 

So  without'  any  outward  resistance,  he  let  the  necessary 
prep'arations  be  made.  It  wrung  his  heart  to  go,  but  he  could 
Dot  wring  hers  by  staying. 

Aft-r  his  interview  with  Robert,  and  his  further  interview 
with  Catherine,  to  whom  he  gave  the  most  minute  recom- 
mendations and  directions,  with  a  reverent  gentleness  which 
seemed  to  make  the  true  state  of  the  case  more  ghastly  plam 
to  the  wife  than  ever,  Edmondson  went  off  to  Flaxman. 
Flaxman  heard  his  news  with  horror. 


888 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


A  fead  case,  you  say— advanced?" 

Lad  case !"  Edmondson  repeated,  gloomily.  *'He  has 
been  fighting  against  it  too  long  under  that  absurd  delusion  of 
clergyman's  throat.  If  only  men  would  not  insist  upon  being 
their  own  doctors!  And,  of  course,  that  going  down  to  Mure- 
well  the  other  day  was  madness.  I  shall  go  with  him  to  Al- 
giers, and  probwioJy  stay  a  week  or  two.  To  think  of  that  life, 
that  career,  cut  short !   This  is  a  queer  sort  of  world 

When  Flaxman  went  over  to  Bedford  Square  in  the  after- 
noon, he  went  like  a  man  going  himself  to  execution.  In  the 
haU  he  met  Catherine. 

You  have  seen  Dr.  Edmondson?"  she  asked,  pale  and  still, 
except  for  a  little  nervous  quivering  of  the  lip. 
He  stooped  and  kissed  her  hand. 

**Yes.  He  says  he  goes  with  you  to  Algiers.  I  will  come 
after  if  you  will  have  me.    The  clhnate  may  do  wonders." 

She  looked  at  him  with  the  most  heart-rending  of  smiles. 

''Will  you  go  in  to  Eobert?  He  is  in  the  study." 

He  went  in  trepidation,  and  found  Eobert  lying  tucked  up 
on  the  sofa,  apparently  reading. 

''Don't— don't,  old  fellow,"  he  said,  affectionately,  as  Flax- 
man -almost  broke  down.  "It  comes  to  all  of  us  sooner  or 
later.  Whenever  it  comes  we  think  it  too  soon.  I  relieve  I 
have  been  sure  of  it  for  some  time.  We  are  such  strange 
creatures !  It  has  been  so  present  to  me  lately  that  life  was 
too  good  to  last.  You  remember  the  sort  of  feeling  one  used 
to  have  as  a  child  about  some  treat  in  the  distance— that  it 
was  too  much  joy— that  something  was  sure  to  come  between 
ytni  and  it?  Well,  in  a  sense,  I  have  had  my  joy,  the  first- 
fruits  of  it  at  least." 

But  as  he  threw  his  arms  behind  his  head,  leaning  back  on 
them,  Flaxman  saw  the  eyes  darken  and  the  naive  boyish 
mouth  contract,  and  knew  that  under  all  these  brave  words 
there  was  a  heart  which  hungered. 

"  How  strange !"  Eobert  went  on,  reflectively;  ''  yesterday  I 
was  travehng,  walking  like  other  men,  a  member  of  society. 
To-day  I  am  an  invalid;  in  the  true  sense,  a  man  no  longer, 
The  world  has  done  with  me ;  a  barrier  I  shall  never  recross 
has  sprung  up  between  me  and  it.  Flaxman,  to-night  is  the 
story-telling.  W\M  you  read  to  them?  I  have  the  book  here 
prepared— some  sc^Bnes  from  'David  Copperdeld.'  And  you 
will  tell  them?" 


ROBERT  BLSMEEB.  ®89 


»  1-  ;i  iMit  Flaxman  undertook  it.  Never  did  he  for- 
.etth«  SonTom"  ous  rumor  had  spread,  and  the  New 
get  the  scene,   boin  ij^possible  to  give  the  reading. 

of  straSed  faces  listened  to  Flaxman's 

A  hall  full  messages  of  cheer  and  exhor- 

TZ^'Zl^nTJ^^^^^^^^  through  the  place 

SSet  oSe  was  blocked,  Sen  looking  dismally  into  each 
Serl  eyeT  women  weeping,  children  sobbing  for  sympathy, 
Sing  themselves  at  once  shelterless  and  forsaken.  When 
ELmerJheard  the  news  of  it  he  turned  on  his  face,  and  a«ked 

^^L^pStti*^^^^^^  Brotherhood 

rjirsoT^^^^^^^^ 

foSS  breakdown.  Catherine  found  herself  besieged  by 
off^s  of  help  of  various  kinds.  One  ofEer  Flaxman  Persuaded 
hSracS.  ItwastheloanofavmaatElBia^^^^^ 
above  Algiers,  belongmg  to  a  connection  of  his  own.  A  resi 
denl  on  tL  spot  was  to  take  all  trouble  oif  their  hands ;  they 
were  to  find  servants  ready  for  them,  and  every  comfort 

Satherine  made  every  arrangement  met  every  kindness 
with  a  seM-reliant  calm  that  never  failed.  But  it  seemed  to 
Flaxman  that  her  heart  was  broken-that  half  of  ter,  m  fef - 
L  was  already  on  the  other  side  of  this  horror  which  stared 
thim  ilintheface.  Was  it  his  perception  of  t  which  stirred  ^ 
Bobert  after  awhile  to  a  greater  hopefulness  of  speech,  a  xx)n- 
stant  bright  dwelling  on  the  flowery  sunshine  J^^^^^  ^^^J, 
were  about  to  exchange  the  fog  and  cold_of  London?  The  mo- 
mentary revival  of  energy  was  more  pitiful  to  Flaxman  than 
his  first  quiet  resignation. 

He  himself  wrote  every  day  to  Rose.  Strange  love  lettersi 
in  which  the  feeling  that  could  not  be  avowed  ran  as  a  fiery 
under-current  through  all  the  sad  brotherly  record  of  the  in- 
valid's doings  and  prospects.  There  was  deep  trouble  m  Long 
Whindale.  Mrs.  Leyburn  was  tearful  and  hysterical,  and 
wished  to  rush  off  to  town  to  see  Catherine.  Agnes  wrote  m 
distress  that  her  mother  was  quite  unfit  to  travel,  showing  her 
own  inner  conviction,  too,  that  the  poor  thing  would  only  be 
an  extra  burden  on  the  Elsmeres  if  the  journey  were  achieved. 
Rose  wrote  asking  to  be  allowed  to.go  with  them  to  Algiers; 
aad  after  a  little  consultation  it  was  so  arranged,  Mrs.  Ley 


690 


BOBEET  ELSMERE. 


bum  being  tenderly  persuaded,  Robert  himself  writing,  to  stay 
?vhere  she  was. 

The  morning  after  the  interview  with  Edmondson,  Robert 
ent  for  Murray  Edwardes.  They  were  closeted  together  for 
iearly  an  hour.  Edwardes  came  out  with  the  look  of  one  who 
las  been  lifted  into  ^'heavenly  places."  thank  God,"  he 
iaid  to  Catherine,  with  doep  emotion,  that  I  ever  knew  him. 
I  pray  that  I  may  be  found  worthy  to  carry  out  my  pledges  to 
lim." 

When  Catherine  went  into  the  study  she  found  Robert  gaz- 
ing into  the  fire  with  dreamy  eyes.  He  started  and  looked  up 
to  her  with  a  smile. 

Murray  Edwardes  has  promised  himself  heart  and  soul  to 
the  work.  If  necessary,  he  will  give  up  his  chapel  to  carry  it 
on.  But  we  hope  it  will  be  possible  to  work  them  together. 
What  a  brick  he  is !  What  a  blessed  chance  it  was  that  took 
me  to  that  breakfast-party  at  Flaxman's!" 
;  The  rest  of  the  time  before  departure  he  spent  almost  en- 
tirely in  consultation  and  arrangement  with  Edwardes.  It 
was  terrible  how  rapidly  worse  he  seemed  to  grow  directly  the 
situation  had  declared  itself,  and  the  determination  not  to  be 
iU  had  been  perforce  overthrown.  But  his  struggle  against 
breathlessness  and  weakness,  and  all  the  other  symptons  of 
his  state  during  these  last  days,  was  heroic.  On  the  last  day 
of  all,  by  his  own  persistent  wish,  a  certain  number  of  mem- 
*  bers  of  the  Brotherhood  came  to  say  good-bye  to  him.  They 
came  in  one  by  one,  Macdonald  first.  The  old  Scotchman, 
from  the  height  of  his  sixty  years  of  tough  weather-beaten 
manhood,  looked  down  on  Robert  with  a  fatherly  concern. 

*'Eh,  Mister  Elsmere,  but  it's  a  fine  place  yur  gawin'  tu, 
they  say.  Ye'U  do  weel  there,  sir— yell  do  weeL  And  as  for 
the  wark,  sir,  we'll  keep  it  oop— we'll  not  let  the  deil  mak'  hay 
o'  it,  if  we  knaws  it— the  auld  leer !"  he  added,  with  a  phrase- 
ology which  did  more  honor  to  the  Calvanism  of  his  blood 
than  the  philosophy  of  his  training. 

Lestrange  came  in,  with  a  pale  sharp  face,  and  said  Kttle  in 
his  ten  minutes.  But  Robert  divined  in  him  a  sort  of  repressed 
curiosity  and  excitement  akin  to  that  of  Voltaire  turning  his 
feverish  eyes  toward  le  grand  secret.  You,  who  preached  to 
us  that  consciousness,  and  God,  and  the  soul  are  the  only  re- 
alities—are you  so  sure  of  it  now  you  are  dying,  as  you  were 
in  health?    Are  your  courage,  your  certainty,  what  they 


BOBEET  ELSMEKE. 

w.re«"  These  were  the  sort  of  questions  that  seemed  to  under- 

'''ZZl::^^^^^^^^  i-it,  Hubert  did  his  best  to 
mt  aide  his  consciousness  of  it.  He  thanked  him  for  his  help 
rthe  past  and  implored  him  to  stand  by  the  young  society 

^"'I'lLf  Cdly  come  hack.  Lestrange.   But  what  does  one 
man  matter?  One  soldier  falls,  another  presses  forward. 
The  walchUaker  ro^^^  then  paused  a  moment,  a  flush  pass- 

'"^'We'caS'stand  without  you  1"  he  said,  abruptly;  then,  see 
ing  Eobert's  look  of  distress,  he  seemed  to  ca^t  about  for  some- 
hig  reassuring  to  say,  but  could  find  nothing.    Eobert  at 
last  held  out  his  hand  with  a  smile,  and  he  went.   He  left  Els 
mSesteuggUng  with  a  pang  of  horrible  depressi^^^  tireahty 
Tere  wis  no  m^an  who  worked  harder  at  the  New  Brotherhood 
during  the  month  that  followed  than  ^f^^^^^'-^l^'^'^^, 
under  perpetual  protest  from  the  /rondeur  within  him,  but 
something  stung  him  on^on-till  a  habit  had  been  termed 
wWch  premised  to  be  the  joy  and  salvation  of  his  later  life^ 
Was  it  the  haunting  memory  of  that  thm  flgure-the  hand 
clinging  to  the  chair-the  white  appealing  look? 

ofhefs  came  and  went,  tiU  Catherine  trembled  for  the  conse- 
quences.  She  herself  took  in  Mrs.  Eichards  and  her  children, 
comforting  the  sobbing  creatures  afterward  with  a  calmness 
bom  of  her  own  despair.   Robson,  in  the  last  stage  himself, 
sent  him  a  grimly  characteristic  message.    "  I  shaU  solve  the 
riddle,  sir,  before  you.   The  doctor  gives  me  three  days.  For 
the  first  time  in  my  life  I  shall  know  what  you  are  still  guess- 
ing at.   May  the  blessing  of  one  who  never  blessed  thing  or 
creature  before  he  saw  you,  go  with  you!" 
After  it  all,  Robert  sunk  on  the  sofa  with  a  groan. 
"No  more!"  he  said,  hoarsely-" no  more!   Now  for  air-- 
tbe  sea?  To-morrow,  wife,  to-morrow!    Cras  ingens  iteraU 
musmqmr.   Ah,  me!   I  leave  m?/ new  Salamis  behind !" 

But  on  that  last  evening  he  insisted  on  writing  letters  to 
Langham  and  Newcome. 

"I  will  spare  Langham  the  sight  of  me,"  he  said,  smiling 
sadly.   "And  I  wiU  spare  myself  the  sight  of  Newcome-I 
could  not  bear  it,  I  think.   But  I  must  say  good-bye— for  i 
love  them  both." 
Next  day,  two  hours  after  the  Elsmeres  had  left  for  Dover. 


692 


BOBEBT  ELSMEBE. 


a  cab  drove  up  to  their  house  in  Bedford  Square,  and  New- 
come  descended  from  it.  *'Gbne,  sir,  two  hours  ago,"  said 
the  house-maid,  and  the  priest  turned  away  with  an  involun- 
tary gesture  of  despair.  To  his  dying  day  the  passionate  heart 
bore  the  burdens  of  that  "too  lat©,'' beUeving  that  even  at  the 
eleventh  hour  Elsmere  would  have*been  granted  to  his  prayers. 
He  might  even  have  followed  them,  but  that  a  great  retreat 
for  clergy  he  was  just  on  the  point  of  conducting  made  it  im- 
possible. 

Flaxman  went  down  with  them  to  Dover.  Rose,  in  the 
midst  of  all  her  new  and  womanly  care  for  her  sister  and  Rob- 
ert, was  very  sweet  to  him.  In  any  other  circumstances,  he 
told  himself,  he  could  easily  have  broken  down  the  flimsy  bar- 
rier between  them,  but  in  those  last  twenty-four  hours  he  could 
press  no  claim  of  his  own. 

When  the  steamer  cast  loose,  the  girl,  hanging  over  the  side, 
stood  watching  the  tall  figure  on  the  pier  against  the  gray 
January  sky.  Catherine  caught  look  and  attitude,  and 
could  have  cried  aloud  in  her  own  gnawing  pain. 

Flaxman  got  a  cheery  letter  from  Edmondson  describing 
their  arrival.  Their  journey  had  gone  well ;  even  the  odious 
passage  from  Marseilles  had  been  tolerable;  little  Mary  had 
proved  a  model  traveler;  the  villa  was  luxurious,  the  weather 
good. 

''I  have  got  rooms  close  by  them  in  the  vice-consul's  cot- 
tage," wrote  Edmondson.  ''Imagine,  within  sixty  hours  of 
leaving  London  in  a  January  fog,  finding  yourself  tramping 
over  wild  marigolds  and  mignonette,  under  a  sky  and  through 
an  air  as  balmy  as  those  of  an  EngUsh  June— when  an  English 
June  behaves  itself.  Elsmere's  room  overlooks  the  bay,  the 
great  plain  of  the  Metidja  dotted  with  villages,  and  the  grand 
range  of  the  Djurjura,  backed  by  snowy  summits  one  can 
hardly  tell  from  the  clouds.  His  spirits  are  marvelous.  He  is 
plunged  in  the  history  of  Algiers,  raving  about  one  Fromentin, 
learning  Spanish  even !  The  wonderful  purity  and  warmth  of 
the  air  seem  to  have  relieved  the  larynx  greatly.  He  breathes 
and  speaks  much  more  easily  than  when  we  left  London.  I 
sometimes  feel  when  I  look  at  him  as  though  in  this  as  in  all 
else  he  were  unlike  the  common  sons  of  men— as  though  to 
him  it  might  be  possible  to  subdue  even  this  fell  disease.'' 

Elsmere  himself  wrote : 
'I  had  not  heard  the  half '— 0  Flaxman!  An  enchanted 


ROBERT  ELSMEEE. 

lor,^   air  sun  warmth,  roses,  orange-blossom,  new  potatoes 
™nise  ve^d  Eastern  beauties,  domed  Mosques  and 
^  \?  f  MaMir-everything  that  feeds  the  outer  and  the 
preaching  ^aM^^  ^^^^^^  making  to  the  depth 

S'^lTlted  ai Terween  us  and  the  curve  of  the  bay,  for 
t  ;^fpr!t  L^ven  One's  soul  seems  to  escape  one,  to  pour 
Sote'SousVeofthemo^^^^   I  am  better-I 

'''"ttr^tSrishes  exceedingly.   She  lives  mostly  on  oranges 
ividiy  iiu  hv  sixtv  nuns  who  inhabit  the  convent 

?lmag^^e  t[  she  were  a  trifle  older,  her  mother  would  hardly 
vSi  STiroceedings  of  these  dear  berosaried  women  with  so 

""tsT£!*s^e  writes  more  letters  than  Clax-issa  and  re- 
ceivt^mofe  th'an  an  editor  of  the  '  Times.'  I  h^ve  the  stro^^^ 
^cl  vtws  as  vou  know,  as  to  the  vanity  'of  letter-wnting. 
Sere  wi  a  tfme  when  you  shared  them,  but  there  are  cir^ 
SSaTcesand  conjunctures  alas!  J^^'^^^.^^Jl,^^ 
sure  of  his  friend  or  his  friend's  pnnciples.  Kmd  friend,  gooa 
Mlow  lo  often  to  Elgood  Street.  Tell  me  everything  about 
everybody    iTis  posSble,  after  all.  that  I  may  live  to  come 

'^But:  wSLter,  alas!  the  lett.1.  fell  into  a  veij  different 
strain    The  weather  had  changed,  had  turned  mdeM  damp 
anT?ainy  the  natives  of  course  declaring  that  such  gloom  and 
Stm  S  January  had  never  been  known  before  Edmondson 
wrote  in  discouragement.   Elsmere  had  had  a  touch  of  co  d 
had  been  confined  to  bed,  and  almost  speechless.   His  letter 
was  full  of  medical  detail,  from  which  Flaxman  gathered  fiat 
in  spite  of  the  raUy  of  the  first  ten  days,  it  was  c  ear  that  he 
disease  was  attacking  constantly  fresh  tissue.      He  is  vei  j 
depressed,  too,"  said  Edmondson;  "  I  have  never  seen  him  so 
yel   He  sits  ^nd  looks  at  us  in  the  evening  sometimes  with 
eyes  that  wi'ing  one's  heart.   It  is  as  though,  after  havmg  for 
a  moment  alloled  himself  to  hope,  he  found  it  a  doubly  hard 
task  to  submit."  ^,  i, 

Ah,  that  depression!  It  was  the  last  eclipse  through  which 
a  radiant  soul  was  called  to  pass:  but  while  it  lasted^*/^^ 
black  indeed.  The  implac&ble  reality,  obscured  at  first  by 
the  emotion  and  excitement  of  farewells,  and  then  by  a  Driei 
spring  of  hope  and  returning  vig6r,  showed  itself  now  m  all  its 


694 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 


stem  nakedness — sat  down,  as  it  were,  eye  to  eye  with  Elsmere 
— immovable,  ineluctable.  There  were  certain  features  of  the 
disease  itself  which  were  specially  trying  to  such  a  nature.  The 
long  silences  it  enforced  were  so  unlike  him,  seemed  already  to 
withdraw  him  so  pitifully  from  their  yearning  grasp !  In  theso 
dark  days  he  would  sit  crouching  over  the  wood-fire  in  the 
little  salon,  or  He  drawn  to  the  window  looking  out  on  the  rain- 
storm bowing  the  ilexes  or  scattering  the  meshes  of  clematis, 
silent,  almost  always  gentle,  but  turning  sometimes  on  Cathe^ 
rine,  or  on  Mary  playing  at  his  feet,  eyes  which,  as  Edmond 
son  said,    wrung  the  heart." 

But  in  reality,  under  the  husband's  depression,  and  undei 
the  wife's  inexhaustible  devotion,  a  combat  was  going  on, 
which  reached  no  third  person,  but  was  throughout  poignant 
and  tragic  to  the  highest  degree.  Catherine  was  making  her 
last  effort,  Robert  his  last  stand.  As  we  know,  ever  since  that 
passionate  submission  of  the  wife  which  had  thrown  her  mor- 
ally at  her  husband's  feet,  there  had  lingered  at  the  bottom  of 
her  heart  one  last  supreme  hope.  All  persons  of  the  older 
Christian  type  attribute  a  special  importance  to  the  moment  of 
death.  While  the  man  of  science  looks  forward  to  his  last 
hour  as  a  moment  of  certain  intellectual  weakness,  and  calmly 
warns  his  friends  beforehand  that  he  is  to  be  judged  by  the 
utterances  of  health  and  not  by  those  of  physical  collapse,  the 
Christian  believes  that  on  the  confines  of  eternity  the  veil  of 
flesh  shrouding  the  soul  grows  thin  and  transparent,  and  that 
the  glories  and  the  truths  of  heaven  are  visible  with  a  special 
clearness  and  authority  to  the  dying.  It  was  for  this  moment, 
either  in  herself  or  *  i  him,  that  Catherine's  unconquerable 
faith  had  been  patiently  and  dumbly  waiting.  Either  she 
would  go  first,  and  death  would  wing  her  poor  last  words  to 
him  with  a  magic  and  power  not  their  own ;  or,  when  he  came 
to  leave  her,  the  veil  of  doubt  would  faU  away  perforce  from  a 
spirit  as  pure  as  it  was  humble,  and  the  eternal  light,  the  Hght 
of  the  Crucified,  shine  through. 

Probably,  if  there  had  been  no  breach  in  Robert's  serenity, 
Catherine's  poor  last  effort  would  have  been  much  feebler, 
briefer,  more  hesitating.  But  when  she  saw  him  plunged  for 
a  short  space  in  mortal  discouragement,  in  a  somberness  that 
as  the  days  went  on  had  its  points  and  crests  of  feveri^  irrita- 
tion, her  anguished  pity  came  to  the  help  of  her  creed.  Robert 
felt  himself  besieged,  driven  within  the  citadel,  her  being  urg- 


ROBERT  ELSMERE. 

ing  grappling  with  his.  In  little  half-articulate  words  and 
wfy's  in  her  Attempts  to  draw  him  back  to  some  of  their  old 
reliious  books  and  prayers,  in  those  kneelmg  vigils  he  often 
Sund  her  maintaining  at  night  beside  him,  he  felt  a  persistent 
attackfiwhich  nearly-in  his  weakness-overthrew  him. 

For  reason  and  thought  grow  tired  like  muscles  and  nerves^ 
Some  of  the  greatest  and  most  daring  thinkers  of  the  world 
have  felt  this  pitiful  1  nging  to  be  at  one  with  those  who  love 
them,  at  whatev  r  cos  before  the  last  farewell.  And  the 
sunpler  Christian  faith  has  still  to  create  around  it  those 
venerable  associations  nd  habits  which  buttress  mdmdual 
feebleness  and  diminish  the  individual  effort. 

One  early  Fbruary  morning,  just  before  dawn  Eobert 
stretched  out  his  hand  for  bis  wife,  and  found  her  kneelmg 
beside  him.  The  dim,  mingled  light  showed  him  her  face 
vaguely-her  clasped  hands,  her  eyes.  He  looked  at  her  m 
silence,  she  at  him;  there  seemed  to  be  a  strange  shock  as  of 
battle  between  them.   Then  he  drew  her  head  down  to  him. 

"Catherine,"  he  said  to  her,  in  a  feeble,  intense  whisper, 
"would  you  leave  me  without  comfort,  without  help,  at  the 
end?" 

"Oh  my  beloved!"  she  cried,  under  her  breath,  throwing 
her  ariks  round  him,  "if  you  would  but  stretch  out  your  hand 
to  the  true  comfort-the  true  help-the  Lamb  of  God  sacrificed 

for  us!" 
He  stroked  her  hair  tenderly. 

"My  weakness  might  yield-my  true  best  self  never.  1 
know  Whom  I  have  believed.  Oh,  my  darhng,  be  content. 
Your  miseiy,  yoiu-  prayers  hold  me  baok  from  God-from  that 
truth  and  that  trust  which  can  alone  be  honestly  mine.  Sub- 
mit, my  wife!  Leave  me  in  God's  hands." 

She  raised  her  head.  His  eyes  were  bright  with  fever,  his 
lips  trembling,  his  whole  look  heavenly.  She  bowed  herself 
again  with  a  quiet  burst  of  tears,  and  an  indescribable  self- 
abaseinent.  They  had  had  their  last  struggle,  and  once  more 
he  had  conquered.  Afterward  the  cloud  lifted  from  him. 
Depression  and  irritation  disappeared.  It  seemed  to  her  often 
as  though  he  lay  already  on  the  breast  of  God.;  even  her  wifely 
love  grew  timid  and  awestruck. 

Yet  he  did  not  talk  much  of  immortality,  of  reunion.  It 
was  lite  a  scrupulous  chad  that  dares  not  take  for  granted 
more  than  its  father  has  allowed  it  to  know.   At  the  same 


690 


ROBERT  KLSMERE. 


time,  it  was  plain  to  those  about  him  that  the  onl}-  reaUties  to 
him  in  a  world  of  shadows  were  God— love-  the  soul. 

One  dayjae  suddenly  caught  Catherine's  hands,  drew  her 
face  to  him,  and  studied  it  with  his  glowing  and  hollow  eyes, 
as  though  he  wt>uld  draw  it  into  his  soul. 

*'He  made  it,"  he  said,  hoarsely,  as  he  let  hergo— this  love 
— this  yearning.  And  in  life  He  only  makes  us  yearn  that  He 
may  satisfy.  He  can  not  lead  us  to  the  end  and  disappoint  the 
craving  He  Himself  set  in  us.  No,  no— could  you— could  1 
— do  it?   And  He,  the  source  of  lov^e,  of  justice—" 

Flaxman  arrived  a  few  days  afterward.  Edmondson  had 
started  for  London  the  night  before,  leaving  Elsmere  better 
again,  able  to  drive  and  even  walk  a  little,  and  well  looked 
after  by  a  local  doctor  of  ability.  As  Flaxman,  tramping  u]) 
behind  his  carridge,  climbed  the  long  hill  to  El  Biar,  he  saw 
the  whole  marvelous  place  in  a  white  light  of  beauty- -the  bay, 
the  city,  the  mountains,  olive-yard  and  orange-gro'^e,  drown  in 
pale  tints  on  luminious  air,  Suddenly,  at  the  entrance  of  a 
steep  and  narrow  lane,  he  noticed  a  slight  figure  standing— a 
parasol  against  the  sun. 

We  thought  you  would  like  to  be  shown  the  short  cut  up 
the  hill,"  said  Rose's  voice,  strangely  demure  and  shy.  "The 
man  can  drive  round." 

A  grip  of  the  hand,  a  word  to  the  driver,  and  they  were 
alone  in  the  high-walled  lane,  which  was  really  the  old  road  up 
the  Mil,  before  the  French  brought  zigzags  and  civilization. 
She  gave  him  news  of  Eqbert^ — better  than  he  had  expected. 
Under  the  influence  of  one  of  the  natural  reactions  that  wait 
on  illness,  the  girl's  to^  was  cheerful,  and  Flaxman's  spirits 
rose.  They  talked  of  the  splendor  of  the  day,  the  discomforts 
of  the  steamer,  the  picturesqueness  of  the  landing — of  any- 
thing and  everything  but  the  hidden  something  which  was 
responsible  for  the  dancing  brightness  in  his  eyes,  the  occa- 
sional swift  veiling  of  her  own. 

Then,  at  an  angle  of  the  lane,  where  a  little  spring  ran  cool 
and  brown  into  a  moss-grown  trough,  where  the  blue  broke 
joyously  through  the  gray  cloiid  of  olive-wood,  where  not  a 
sight  or  sound  was  to  be  heard  of  all  the  busy  life  which  hjdes 
and  nestles  along  the  hill,  he  stopped,  his  hands  seizing  hers. 

'*How  long?"  he  said,  flushing,  his  Hght  overcoat  falling 
back  from  his  strong,  well-made  frame;  '-from  August  to 
February— how  long?" 


ROBERT  EJLSMERE. 


697 


No  more!  It  was  most  natural,  nay,  inevitable.  For  the 
moment  death  stood  aside  and  love  asserted  itself.  But  this  is 
no  place  to  chronicle  what  it  said. 

And  he  had  hardly  asked,  and  she  had  hardly  yielded,  before 
the  same  misgiving,  the  same  shrinking,  seized  on  the  lovers 
themselves  They  sped  up  the  hill,  they  crept  into  the  house, 
far  apart.  It  was  agreed  that  neither  of  them  should  say  a 
word. 

But,  with  that  extraordinarily  quick  perception  that  some- 
times goes  with  such  a  state  as  his,  Elsmere  had  guessed  the 
position  of  things  before  he  and  Flaxman  had  been  half  an 
hour  together.  He  took  a  boyish  pleasure  in  making  his 
'end  confess  himself,  and  when  Flaxman  left  him,  at  once 
or  Catherine  and  told  her. 
erine,  coming  out  afterward,  met  Flaxman  in  the  little 
ed  hall.  How  she  had  aged  and  blanched  I  She  stood  a 
moment  opposite  to  him,  in  her  plain  long  dress  with  its  white 
collar  and  cuffs,  her  face  working  a  little. 

We  are  so  glad!"  she  said,  but  almost  with  a  sob,  *'God 
bless  you !" 

And,  wringing  his  hand,  she  passed  away  from  him,  hiding 
her  eyes,  but  without  a  sound.  When  they  met  again  she  was 
quite  self-contained  and  bright,  talking  much  both  with  him 
and  Rose  about  the  future. 

And  one  little  word  of  Rose's  must  be  recorded  here,  for 
those  who  have  followed  her  through  these  four  years.  It  was 
at  night,  when  Robert,  with  smiles,  had  driven  them  out-of- 
doors  to  look  at  the  moon  over  the  bay,  from  the  terrace  just 
beyond  the  windows.  They  had  been  ^tting  on  the  balustrade 
talking  of  Elsmere.  In  this  nearness  to  death,  Rose  had  lost 
her  mocking  ways;  but  she  was  shy  and  diflScult,  and  Flaxman 
felt  it  all  very  strange,  and  did  not  venture  to  woo  her  much. 

When,  all  at  once,  he  felt  her  hand  steal  trembling,  a  little 
white  suppliant,  into  his,  and  her  face  against  his  shoulder. 

^'  You  won't— you  won't  ever  be  angry  with  me  for  making 
you  wait  like  that?  It  was  impertinent— it  was  like  a  child 
playing  tricks!" 

Flaxman  was  deeply  shocked  by  the  change  in  Robert.  He 
was  terribly  emaciated.  They  could  only  talk  at  rare  intervals 
in  the  d^y,  and  it  was  clear  that  his  nights  were  often  one  long 


698 


EGBERT  BLSMERE. 


struggle  for  breath.  But  his  spirits  were  extraordinarily  even^ 
and  his  days  occupied  to  a  point  Flaxman  could  hardly  have 
believed.  He  would  creep  dowi^-stairs  at  eleven,  read  his 
English  letters  (among  them  always  some  from  Elgood  Street), 
write  his  answers  to  them— those  diflScult  scrawls  are  among 
the  treasured  archives  of  a  society  which  is  fast  gathering  to 
itself  some  of  the  best  life  in  England — ^then  often  fall  asleep 
with  fatigue.  After  food  there  would  come  a  short  drive,  or, 
if  the  day  was  very  warm,  an  hour  or  two  of  sitting  outside, 
generally  his  best  time  for  talking.  He  had  a  wheeled  chair  in 
which  Flaxman  would  take  him  across  to  the  con  v^ent  garden— 
a  dream  of  beauty.  Overhead  an  orange  canopy— leaf  and 
blov^som  and  golden  fruit  all  in  simultaneous  perfection ;  under- 
neath a  revel  of  every  imaginable  flower — ^narcissus  andane 
ones,  geraniums  and  clematis;  and  all  about,  hed 
monthly  roses,  dark  red  and  pale  alternately,  making 
leaf  carpet  under  their  feet.  Through  the  tree-trunks  sh^ 
the  white,  sun- warmed  convent,  and  far  beyond  were  ghmps 
of  downward-trending  valleys  edged  by  twinkling  sea. 

Here,  sensitive  and  receptive  to  his  last  hour,  Elsmere  drank 
in  beauty  and  delight ;  talking,  too,  whenever  it  was  possible 
to  him,  of  all  things  in  heaven  and  earth.  Then,  when  he 
came  home,  he  would  have  out  his  books  and  fall  to  some  old 
critical  problem — his  worn  and  scored  Greek  Testament  always 
beside  him,  the  quick  eye  making  its  way  thi*ough  some  new 
monograph  or  other,  the  parched  lips  opening  every  now  and 
then  to  call  Flaxman's  attention  to  some  fresh  light  on  an  ob- 
scure point— only  to  rehnquish  the  effort  again  and  again  with 
an  unfailing  patience. 

But  though  he  would  begin  as  ardently  as  ever,  he  could  not 
keep  his  attention  fixed  to  these  things  very  long.  Then  it 
would  be  the  turn  of  his  favorite  poets— Wordsworth,  Tenny- 
son, Virgil.  Virgil,  perhaps,  most  frequently.  Flaxman, 
would  read  the  -^neid  aloud  to  him,  Eobert  following  the 
passages  he  loved  best  in  a  whisper,  his  hand  resting  the  while 
in  Catherine's.  And  then  Mary  would  be  brought  in,  and  he 
would  lie  watching  her  while  she  played. 

*'Ihave  had  a  letter,''  he  said  to  Flaxman  one  afternoon, 
'^from  a  Broad  Church  clergyman  in  the  Midlands,  who  im- 
agines me  to  be  still  militant  in  London,  protesting  against  the 
*  absurd  and  wasteful  isolation'  of  the  New  Brotherhood.  He 
asks  me  why  instead  of  leaving  the  church  I  did  not  join  the 


EOBiERT  ELSMERE. 


609 


Church  Eeform  Union,  why  I  did  not  attempt  to  widen  the 
church  from  within,  and  why  we  in  Elgood  Street  are  not  now 
in  organic  connection  with  the  new  Broad  Church  settlement, 
in  East 'London.  I  believe  I  have  written  him  rather  a  shary 
letter;  I  could  not  help  it.  It  was  borne  in  on  me  to  tell  him 
that  it  is  ail  owing  to  him  and  his  brethren  that  we  are  in  the 
muddle  we  are  in  to-day.  Miracle  is  to  our  time  what  the  law 
was  to  early  Christians.  We  must  make  up  our  minds  about 
it  one  Y^aj  or  the  other.  And  if  wepecide  to'throw  it  over  ai 
Paul  threw  over  the  law,  then  we  must  fight  as  he  did.  Ther^i 
is  no  help  in  subterfuge,  no  help  in  any  thing  but  a  perfect 
sincerity.  We  must  come  out  of  it.  The  ground  must  be 
cleared ;  then  may  come  the  rebuilding.  Eeligion  itself,  the 
peace  of  generations  to  come,  is  at  stake.  If  we  could  wait 
indefinitely  while  the  Church  widened,  well  and  good.  But  v^e 
have  but  the  one  life,  the  one  chance  of  saying  the  word  or 
playing  the  part  assigned  us." 

On  another  occasion,  in  the  convent  garden,  he  broke  out 
with : 

**I  often  lie  here,  Flaxman,  wondering  at  the  way  in  which 
men  become  the  slaves  of  some  metaphysical  word— person- 
ality, or  intelligence,  or  what  not !  What  meaning  can  they 
have  as  applied  to  Godf  Herbert  Spencer  is  quite  right.  We 
no  sooner  attempt  to  define  what  we  mean  by  a  Personal  God 
than  we  lose  ourselves  in  labyrinths  of  language  and  logic. 
But  why  attempt  it  at  all?  I  like  that  French  saymg :  *  Quand 
on  me  demande  ce  que  c'  est  que  Dieu,  je  V  ignore;  .quand  on  ne 
me  le  demands  pas,  je  le  sais  tresbienP  No,  we  can  not  realize 
Him  in  words — we  can  only  live  in  Him,  and  die  to  him !" 

On  another  occasion  he  said,  speaking  to  Catherine  of  the 
squire  and  of  Mey rick's  account  of  his  last  year  of  life: 

* '  How  selfish  one  is  always— when  one  least  thinks  it !  How 
could  I  have  forgotten  him  so  completely  as  I  did  during  all 
that  New  Brotherhood  time?  Where,  what  is  he  now?  Ah  I 
if  somewhere,  somehow,  one  could—" 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  but  the  painful  yearning  of 
his  look  finished  it  for  him. 

But  the  days  passed  on,  and  the  voice  grew  rarer,  the 
strength  feebler.  By  the  beginning  of  March  all  coming  down- 
stairs was  over.  He  was  entirely  confined  to  his  room,  almost 
to  his  bed.  Then  there  came  a  horrible  week,  when  no 
narcotics  took  effect,  when  every  night  was  a  wrestle  for  Ufe, 


B'OBBRT  ELSMERB. 


A  thP  last    They  had  a  good  nurse,  but 

Catherine  was  sitting  by  ™f "  ^iTs^rmer  sunrises  al 

„orldotsu„  "l-^JXk^het^  -»"^^^ 

Petites  Dalles,   ^to  loci's"  ™"°f  Her  We  was  no  longer  her 

i.g  gaze  resting  on  tbe  garden  f^^f  ^.^.^t^^t  she  saw 
nation  took  possession  of  her.^^^^^^^  xnisty  slope  in 

the  form  of  the  Son  of  man  P^^J^^^  turned  and  beckoned, 
front  of  her,  that  the  «;^3ef  ^^^^^^^^  she  cried, 

^Z^^-ZtXX^f  -not,  M.  life  is 

its  side.   She  followed  It  with  a  sort  o^angmsh,^^^^^^^ 
to  her  as  though  mmd.  and  body  -J^  ^^^^f^^  J.^nly  a 
tuoving-that  Bbe  would  not  If  ^he  ^^^^^^  j^er  trance  shaken 
<^ound  from  behind  startled  her.  bhe  tuinea,  u« 

°«^"^CrK^»i^^^^^ 

rmSe  .an  .nt 

forward  hstenmg.  ^  Mevrich-Catherine- 

'^The  child's  cry!— thank  God!   Ufi.  Meyii-<^ 

"'she  knew  that  he  stood  again  on  the  stai^  at  Murewell 

in^Jat  September  night  -^^-^  g^-.^^^'J^^Tr 
that  he  thanked  God  because  her  pam  was  over. 

An  instant's  strained  looking  and,  emki°g  bac^n 
arms,  he  gave  two  or  three  gaspmg  breaths,  and  died. 

Five  days  later  Flaxman  and  Eose  brought  Catherine  Jiome. 
It  wl  supposed  that  she  would  return      ber  -th^^^ 
wood.   Instead  she  settled  down  again  m  ^ond^^^  -"^^^^^^^ 
of  those  whom  Eobert  E^re  had  l<^ved  was  jor^^^^^^^  ^ 

widow.  Every  Sunday  n^o™^"^' ^'%,,'Lrafternoon  saw 
she  worshiped  in  the  old  ways;  every  Sunday  attemoon 


r 


SOBEET  ELSMERE. 


?01 


her  black-veiled  figure  sitting  motionless  in  a  comer  of  the 
Elgood  Street  Hall.  In  the  week  she  gave  all  her  time  and 
money  to  the  various  works  of  charity  which  he  had  started. 
But  she  held  her  peace.  Many  were  grateful  to  her;  some 
loved  her;  none u»^i**^=^^  .  She  lived  for  one  hope  only ; 
and  the  v  '*'"'^P^^^®^  ^  slowly. 

Th^  i^ew  Brotherhood  still  exists  and  grows.  There  are 
.xiany  who  imagined  that  as  it  had  been  raised  out  of  the  earth 
by  Elsmere's  genius,  so  it  would  sink  with  him.  Not  so !  He 
would  have  fought  the  struggle  to  victory  with  surpassing 
force,  with  a  brilliancy  and  rapidity  none  after  him  could  rival. 
But  the  struggle  was  not  his.  His  effort  was  but  a  fraction  of 
the  effort  of  the  race.  In  that  effort,  and  in  the  Divine  force 
behind  it,  is  our  trust,  as  was  his. 

"  Others,  I  doubt  not,  if  not  we, 
The  issue  of  our  toils  shall  see; 
And  ( they  forgotten  and  unknown ) 
Young  children  gather  as  their  own 
The  harvest  that  the  dead  had  sown." 


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